


The Grotto

by erin_myecourt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erin_myecourt/pseuds/erin_myecourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Draco’s war crimes trial, the Wizengamot finally decides on his community sentence: help rebuild a village that was destroyed in the war. It sounds simple enough. Until Draco begins to unravel the mystery behind the assignment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grotto

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bryoneybrynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryoneybrynn/gifts).



> Bryoney, you gave me a lot to work with. I tried to incorporate as much of your wish list into the story as I could, including lots of angst, flangst, feels, and conflict—of the _somewhat_ quieter sort. And while the tone is serious, I'm hopeful you'll find the end satisfying. What else is inside? Post-war life, struggling toward wholeness, bittersweet romance, getting-together, scars! It was such an honor to write for you. I hope you enjoy the story. Immeasurable thanks to my amazing betas, B and C! And my sincere gratitude to the mods for their dedication and hard work.

 

_There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast._

~Charles Dickens, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc.

 

_"What's comin' will come, an' we'll meet it when it does."_

~Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds

A Ministry owl delivered the summons on the third anniversary of Draco’s sentencing. He’d long stopped believing the missive would ever arrive, so holding it in his hand didn’t produce the depth of emotion he'd imagined it would. He felt neither agitated nor angry. Pleased nor expectant. A measure of relief swelled through him, but that was the extent of his reaction. 

"Three years," he told the owl. "They’ve taken their time about it, haven’t they?"

Struck with mirth, he let the parchment slip from his fingers as he laughed. The owl wasted no time in taking advantage, hopping from the sill to the table, looking for scraps. Draco pushed his half-eaten breakfast plate forward. "Go on. Have your fill." 

Three years they'd made him wait. But if the Wizengamot expected him to make a scene, they’d miscalculated. His attention span for games had shortened considerably since the war. Those in power had lost the ability to mold his moods the moment he’d ceased to care that they could. 

He penned a reply, attached it the owl’s leg, and ran a steady hand over her back. "Tomorrow, it is." 

The owl gave a forlorn hoot. She snatched a final morsel from his plate and launched herself through the open window in an explosion of talons and plumage. Draco plucked a lonely feather from the table, its pure whiteness splotched with spilt tea from a jostled cup, and held it to his lips.

**

"Mr. Malfoy."

"Present." His bit the inside of his cheek before the smirk got away from him. Some habits were unbreakable, and pretending respect had never been his strong suit. He settled himself on a three-legged stool in the center of the courtroom, bracing a leg on one of its spindles. Arms crossed over his chest, he waited for a rebuke.

None came. 

High above him, three robed witches sat watching, their features lost in the gloom. The domain of the Wizengamot was traditionally poorly lit. The high court preferred the medieval ambiance of open flame—torches and the occasional pit of crackling fire—which added a foreboding to the proceedings. Or took it away, Draco supposed, depending on which side one found himself.

Strangely, no torches had been set alight today. Instead, artificial light speared through the lancet windows built into the high walls. Draco thought the illusion lacking. The beams held an orange cast and felt cold. No fool would mistake it for the natural glow of the sun. No fool sitting in his place, at any rate. 

One of the wrinkled witches unclasped her hands and leaned forward to stare down at Draco. Her thick robes rustled, piercing the silence. "Thank you for coming."

Draco allowed a slight tilt of his head, acknowledging the inane statement while he muddled through its hidden meaning. He’d been _eager_ to come, to finally put this deed behind him, but there was little need to advertise that. "I put myself at the court’s disposal three years ago. At the time, I was more than willing to serve out my community sentence however you deemed appropriate."

"At the time?"

Draco felt a muscle jump in his jaw. Three years hadn’t helped him to remember to think before he spoke. Every word mattered. One of the few useful lessons his father had taught him. He berated himself silently. "Then, and now. I’m ready to repay my debt to society in whatever way the court sees fit." 

He bit back more amusement at the surprised reactions above him. Lying in this place was folly, but there were ways around an untruth if one were skilled. As luck would have it, Draco was very skilled. Not that he would have need of those talents today.

"You sound sincere, Mr. Malfoy."

"I am."

He’d been sincere for years. Debts didn’t sit well with Malfoys. Nor did fools, and there had been plenty of those in the branches of his family tree. Still, Draco had little control over the actions of others. He couldn’t save his parents from their own stupidity, and in the end he hadn’t needed to. They’d done so themselves, albeit too late. 

His own crimes weren’t inconsequential, and he imagined his punishment would reflect that, but he refused to hide behind the excuse of youth as many of his classmates had done. It was past time to clear the slate. He injected a hint of humility into his tone. Any more than a drop would be looked upon with suspicion. Another curse of his house. "I’m not certain why you’ve waited so long, but it's no matter." He ducked his head then, as his smirk would no longer stay behind his teeth where it belonged. His hair fell forward to obscure the curved line of his cheek. 

A second witch sat forward, this one as plump as the other was lean. One eye, clearly blind, was milky white, while the other looked so dark as to be unfathomable. "What are your thoughts on the war?"

"Ma’am?"

"Specifically, on the heroes of the war."

"The _heroes_ of the war." He lifted his head just enough to catch the questioner’s eye. 

"And heroines, of course."

"Of course," Draco parroted. "Let us not forget the heroines." The course of the discussion knocked him off-balance, stripped away some of his good mood. He wobbled on his stool, and his heel took up a rhythmic tapping on the floor. "What of them?"

"Well." The third witch entered the fray, sweeping back her hood to reveal a mass of wild, grey hair. "Your sentence may require you to work for some of these individuals. Do you still feel resentment towards them?"

He’d waited all this time, only to be thrust into the depths of hell, serving out his time playing butler to a Weasley? Or worse, to Granger? His voice wavered, but held. "You’re assuming I harbored resentment towards them originally."

They sat back as a team, exchanging a glance, and Draco realized he’d missed something vital. Were they expecting him to break down and cry because no one had ever branded _him_ a hero? He was no hero. Frankly, the thought of living with such expectation left him nauseated.

"Mr. Malfoy. We simply want to ensure you’ve put your childhood grudges behind you."

Real anger boiled in Draco’s gut, swamping his good humor. Who were these women to judge whom he chose to love and hate? "And if I haven’t? You’ll leave me to wait another three years?" He surged to his feet. " _Then_ perhaps I’ll be good enough to work alongside your heroes."

A deep pit of silence opened, and Draco regretted his outburst immediately. Three years had taught him nothing. He was as impulsive as he’d been at seventeen, if not worse, and now that fact was public, not his guarded secret. They’d send him on his way now. Back to his tiny flat, nestled at the corner of Diagon and Knockturn. 

Not for the first time, he questioned whether the Wizengamot’s plan was to drive him mad.

He reseated himself. "My apologies." These women weren't his enemy. He'd do well to remember that. The thought helped him reclaim a measure of inner peace.

The three witches bent their heads together. Draco gnashed his teeth and waited, a skill he’d never perfected, and finally the trio broke apart. "Mr. Malfoy, it’s the ruling of this council that you begin your mandated service to the wizarding community immediately."

Relief swept over him. "As you wish."

The three leaned forward again, although only the witch on the left spoke. The blind one. "There’s a village that was destroyed in the war, during a rather nasty battle between Aurors and Death Eaters. Reconstruction has been… ongoing. Someone with your advanced spellwork would be welcome."

A compliment? Draco blinked through his surprise. 

"Living conditions are rustic, to say the least. Hopefully this won’t deter your enthusiasm. Additionally, you’ll find that circumstances surrounding the restoration are somewhat unusual. We trust you’ll overcome them."

When Draco had been five years old, his nanny had snuck him off to a Muggle funfair. He’d ridden the carousel ten straight times. To this day, he remembered how he felt stepping off the platform into the spongy grass of the midway. Dizzy and unable to stop the world from tilting. Like a marionette with a madman at his strings. Helpless.

That feeling was no less unnerving at the age of twenty. "I'll do my best."

**

The battle had nearly razed the village.

As one of the few unplottable locations in wizarding Britain, its strategic importance was unmatched. No doubt (hinted the Ministry’s letter) this had been Voldemort’s motivation for mustering his followers there. 

"No doubt," Draco muttered, reading further, absorbing the few details they’d seen fit to relinquish. He himself knew nothing of such a place, which spoke volumes as to how much the Dark Lord had ultimately trusted him. A realization that would have stung him in the past put a thankful stutter in his breath these days. 

The Portkey deposited him on the shore of a small loch. The earth rose up on all sides, miles and miles of empty wild landscape. A mountain sat to the east, and sweeping down its steep side were old gnarled birch trees, with younger ones clustered more thickly on the flat beside the lake. Their bark resembled the surface of the moon, silver and pocked with blackness, their branches looking a deep red in the fading daylight. 

A storm was gathering. Black clouds billowed beyond the mountain, catching on the currents there, stacking into a towering wall. Lightning flickered deep within the mass. It was over a mile walk to the village, and the way the weather was simmering, it wasn’t a race he’d win. Despite that, he didn’t hurry. This was ancient land, infused with venerable magic. Its beauty deserved some reverence.

A spitting drizzle had started by the time he reached the first ruined buildings of the village. The settlement covered one side of a hill, narrow cobbled streets dividing the dwellings. Some thatch remained in places. In others, whole walls had crumbled, leaving nothing but listing hearthstones and eroding staircases that led nowhere. Moss grew indiscriminately on both vertical and horizontal surfaces. 

Draco stopped where the road changed from packed dirt to cobblestone. He’d noticed a weight to the air as he’d climbed the hill, one that increased as he approached the village. If he hadn’t spent the last several years of his life studying the subtle shifts of his mood, he might have shrugged it off as nerves, but his heart knew differently. 

There was magic in this place. And not all of it good. 

He slipped a hand into the pocket of his robe, clutched his wand and started up the street. Nothing along his path had been put to rights. Just how long had this place sat barren and broken? It was a detail the Ministry hadn’t shared, and a question Draco had failed to ask. Years, if he used the growth of moss and foliage as a measure. Yet around the next corner he saw another wreck of a house, and the vegetation felled by _its_ demise was just going over to yellow and brown, as though ripped up by the roots only yesterday. 

A boom split the air, more feeling than sound, rattling through the earth under his feet and shaking the leaves on the tangle of climbing vines. Draco drew his wand and pushed ahead, taking cross streets at random, working deeper into the ruins. Another crash and a lifting cloud of dust one street over was enough incentive to quicken his stride. He cut through the remains of a house and burst onto what might have once been a charming cul-de-sac or outdoor market. 

A thatched lean-to provided shelter from the rain, and under it, seated at a crude but sturdy-looking table, was a man. A simple meal of bread and cheese lay before him. He bent to tuck a piece of food in his mouth, then slumped against the chair and linked his fingers over his chest while he chewed. His back was to Draco, and with his dark hair and plain brown robe, he might have been a thousand different people. 

But he wasn’t. 

Draco lost his grip on his wand, and it clattered to the ground. The man paused mid-chew and tilted his head, as though he were a predator catching a scent, and the sun glinted off a pair of dark frames and thick lenses. 

Potter. Draco stifled the urge to laugh. His life was truly a comedy of errors. 

Draco sank into a crouch and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his wand just as Potter dabbed a napkin against his lips and turned, flipping an elbow over the back of his chair and squinting through the strengthening rain. They stared at each other long enough that water seeped under Draco’s collar and ran between his shoulder blades to pool in the small of his back. Then Potter stood and beckoned. 

"Malfoy. Come out of the rain."

Draco weighed the tone, sensing curiosity but no aversion. No fear either, but that would have made the situation more unusual, not less. He pushed to his feet and crossed the small square, stepping around clusters of weeds that had sprung up between buckled stones to join Potter under the lean-to. Before his courage abandoned him, he held out his hand. "Potter."

He waited for history to repeat itself, and for a several seconds it did. Potter didn’t move. Then, the script veered, and Potter took his hand. "Malfoy. I assume you’re my new partner."

Ridiculous how happy one handshake could make a man. Draco found himself smiling. He hadn’t been expecting such a magnanimous title, and said so. "I’d been led to believe this would be anything but a partnership."

"I'd like it to be." Potter shouldered his robe back. Draco tensed, but all Potter did was shove his hands into his trouser pockets. "Listen, I don’t intend to lord myself over you, if that’s what you’re thinking. If there’s one thing this place has taught me it’s that the lion’s share of progress is accomplished with a team, not a master and servant. I won’t pretend I’m happy about you being here, but it’s not for the reasons you probably think."

The earth rumbled under their feet. Not an earthquake, and no other sounds reached them over the patter of the rain. Draco felt as though they were standing on the stomach of a hungry beast. 

Potter noted the disturbance. He lifted his feet one at a time to stare at the packed earth. Brow furrowed, he gathered the remnants of his meal, tied it up in a square of cloth and stashed it in his robe. "We should leave." He paused before adding, "I don’t like to be in the village after nightfall."

Draco strangled the first retort that came to mind. No need to bruise their tentative peace with too much dry humor. To his mind, the village gave off a tragic aura, not a frightening one. "Are there ghosts here? I imagine there must be."

"None that I’ve seen," Potter admitted. "Spirits don’t seem to linger in this place." With a jerk of his head, he bid Draco follow. Together, they meandered up the hill, wandering in and out of ruined buildings and climbing over piles of rubble. 

Dark was falling, and quickly, but enough light still leaked over the horizon for Draco to make a passing inspection. The place was in utter ruin. "Where exactly have you been concentrating your reconstruction efforts?"

Potter glanced over his shoulder, but didn’t answer. 

Draco kept his eyes trained on the hem of Potter’s dirt-crusted robe. "I’ve seen little evidence of any repairs."

"I know. Let’s get home. Then I’ll explain."

His three clipped sentences gave a novel’s worth of information. Confusion. Frustration. Those had been easy to pick out. But beneath those was despondency, possibly due to Draco's arrival. Well, there was little to be done about that. Draco had been sent to do a job, and he wouldn’t be leaving until its completion. His skills shouldn’t be in question. Potter’s memory couldn’t be that short. 

Of it all, he found Potter’s use of the word "home" to be the most disturbing piece of the puzzle.

The northern edge of the settlement abutted another birch forest. The outlying buildings tumbled into the tree line, but Draco and Potter soon left the destruction behind, feet crunching through dead underbrush as they climbed. A narrow path, heavily trodden—by Potter, Draco could only assume—wound up the hill. 

The climb grew more difficult, and cloying lethargy began to pull at Draco’s limbs. Stubbornly, he shook it off. He couldn’t let a bit of physical exertion hobble him. He _couldn't_ let Potter believe him weak. _Fool_ , he thought with his next breath. _Let go of your petty boyhood rivalries_.

"Potter, I feel—" His vision doubled briefly, and he stumbled. Potter’s hand shot out, catching his arm. 

"Watch your step." 

A blanket of fatigue pressed in on all sides. Draco’s ears popped as the air pressure dipped suddenly. The trees danced and swayed, though not a breath of wind touched his skin, and the rain grew icy and sharp, stinging his cheeks. Magic rippled against his awareness. Draco pulled away from Potter’s grip and stumbled to a halt. "Something’s coming."

"I know. We have to hurry. Come _on_ , Malfoy." 

Draco heard himself ask, "How far?" even as his legs gave out and Potter’s arm slid around his waist. The ground felt heavenly beneath his knees. Rain washed his vision to a silvery-grey. "I just need to rest for a moment."

"There’s no time. We need to get out of the forest. There’s Dark magic compelling you to stop. Fight it."

"I can’t." 

Potter bent close. Warm breath puffed against Draco’s face. "You can. You’re strong. _Fight_."

How many times had those words been whispered in his ear during the course of the war? Measuring his will. His _loyalty_. He’d thought those particular tests behind him. Defiance fueled one last burst of energy. Twisting around, Draco brought his face close to Potter’s. "Goodnight," he said, then closed his eyes and slept.

**

He awakened on a bed plush with pillows and antique linens. Dim daylight filtered through a grated window set high above him in the rock, casting a cool glow on the room’s curved, rough-hewn walls and ceiling. Looking to the right, he spied an old wood table topped with a red cloth runner and laid with fresh fruit and a bottle of wine. Taking care to remain calm and quiet, he rolled his head to the left.

Candles shimmered by an oval porcelain bathtub set on a stone floor. While homey and fitted with the necessities, the place was nonetheless a cave. A hole in the ground on the side of a hill. Draco gulped convulsively as claustrophobia reared up. He pinned his eyes on the opening in the ceiling, watching grey clouds bubble and dance across the sky. Not so far underground then. Rain dripped through the grate in an irregular pitter-pat, ran down the side of the wall and disappeared into a crevice in the stone.

As Draco’s heartbeat calmed, he took stock of Potter’s camp. These must be the rustic living conditions implied by the Ministry. With its gray lichen-covered walls, the cave was no Malfoy Manor, but Potter had done remarkably well by the place, and judging by the hodge-podge of styles, had furnished it with treasures plundered from the empty village.

And why not? No one was left to shout thief. Draco applauded Potter’s logic. The boy had a bit of Slytherin in him after all.

Linens from antique trousseaux had been repurposed as bedcovers and runners; side tables were fashioned from old grain chests. The chair by his bed was a milking stool, the sink positioned against the far wall an animal trough. An antique washboard served as a soap dish, a carpenter bench as a toilette table. A brazier held a loose pile of firewood. A line of graduated copper pots sat beside it.

"What do you think?" Potter materialized in his line of vision. "And how do you feel?"

Mortified, a fact he wouldn’t be sharing. He ignored the first question. "What happened exactly?"

Potter pursed his lips and took the seat next to the bed, allowing Draco plenty of opportunity to scoot further up the pile of pillows. They ended up at eye-level with one another, erasing the implied power Potter’s standing position had afforded. He didn’t seem concerned. 

"I’ll explain everything in time. We have a lot to talk about. But first things first." He hunched over his knees, linking his fingers, and though his posture screamed defeat, he met Draco’s gaze with a steady stare. "There’s dark magic here. In the village. On the hill. First-timers always react the way you did."

So his weakness was common. Normal. The idea did little to curb his embarrassment. "I’m sorry."

Potter’s mop of hair swung back and forth as he shook his head. "No need to be sorry. Truth be told, you made it farther than anyone has before. I’m usually carrying people by the time they reach the center of the town. You made it nearly to the cave. I’m shocked. In a good way, mind you."

Draco answered with an inelegant snort. "Please tell me that won't happen again."

"It never has in the past, so I wouldn’t worry. Things here—events—can be unpredictable, but that element doesn't appear to change."

Draco pressed his palms into the mattress for leverage, but they sank into the squishy fill. Conducting the rest of this conversation in an upright position felt imperative. "Unpredictable." His gaze panned around the cave-turned-homestead. "I’d appreciate if you'd clarify that."

"I will. Let’s eat first. You’ve got to be starving."

He was. Famished, actually. "Just how long was I… sleeping?"

"Two days." 

Potter’s nonchalance confused Draco even more. "Two _days_?" he scoffed. "Impossible."

"Quite possible. Believe me, many others have fared worse. You surprise me, Malfoy."

"All part of my job description," Draco quipped without thinking, inhibitions lowered by the odd scene. 

Potter cocked his head. "What? Sleeping?"

"Keeping you on your toes."

Potter’s brows climbed beneath his fringe. His mouth gave up a smile. "You excel at that no matter the time or place." He stood, clapping his palms against his thighs. "Let’s eat. Then I’ll fill in the gaps. Although you may be sorry once I do."

"Another hazard of working with you?" Draco guessed. 

"One of many, or so I hear."

**

Potter poured the wine. Since Draco had spent his youth picturing Potter drinking from a trough not unlike the one furnishing his cave rather than serving up a fine Merlot, it perpetuated the strange peacefulness of the scene. They sat down to Potter’s simple but satisfying meal, a pair of red tapers and the wine bottle between them. "I don’t usually drink, but getting some help around here is always worth a toast," Potter said. He lifted his goblet, and Draco did the same. The lips of their glasses clinked.

Draco swirled the liquid, then savored the rising bouquet. "Even if that help is me?"

Potter chewed and swallowed before answering. Polite to a fault, but he obviously welcomed the excuse to stall his answer. "I could use you here, Malfoy. Precisely because you _are_ you. I need someone with strong magical abilities who’s well-trained and quick on their feet. It might sound like an easy combination to find, but I haven't had much luck. We wouldn’t seem a compatible team at first glance, but I’m willing to try. _Very_ willing to try. I want nothing more than to put this assignment behind me and go home."

"Plainly said."

"Truthfully said."

"Oh, I know. You're a Gryffindor to the core."

Harry scratched his temple. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Only if you lie. I imagine the world might crack right in half should you try."

Potter took the jab in good grace, ducking his head to chuckle. He swept his glasses off his face, tossed them to the table and met Draco’s eyes without that usual barrier between them. "I’ve done my share of lying."

Yet truth was often more sinister than the worse falsehood, Draco knew. He saluted Potter with his fork. "That makes two of us. I've been working to leave that behind, however."

Potter lifted his glass once more, a silent acknowledgment of Draco's mission. An approval, and Draco grew warm at the gesture. Perhaps this wouldn't be so onerous a task, although the more quickly accomplished, the better. That, at least, they agreed on. "Just how long have you been here?"

"Two years."

"You can’t be serious."

Potter’s eyes glittered with an emotion Draco couldn’t name. "Almost to the day. It’s a mission now, cleansing this place. There were many setbacks in the beginning, but—" He leaned across the table, hair sweeping dangerously close to the flame, "—I’m learning its weaknesses."

"It?" 

"Yes." Potter brandished his wine glass. "It. I don’t know how else to describe this thing. This… Dark presence."

The war was over, not forgotten. Often, the slightest touch to his senses—a sound, a smell, a voice on the street—triggered a rash of memories Draco would have preferred to keep buried. Potter’s tone struck him as familiar, and though he couldn’t pinpoint the reason in his mind, his body broke into a clammy sweat.

He arrived at the obvious conclusion. "You’re not really here to restore the town, are you?"

"I am." 

Draco waited for clarification but got none. Rather than ask again, he turned back to his meal. "How many partners have you had in your two years here in paradise?" He hadn’t meant for the question to have a double meaning, but Potter’s lips parted on a shallow gasp of surprise, and a flash of insight flitted through Draco. He noted the awkwardness in Potter's hesitation, as if desiring such intimacy were shameful, and made a hasty grab for the wine, deflecting the subject tactfully. "It might help to know where my predecessors succeeded and failed in their attempts to help you," he said as he split the remnants of the bottle.

Potter grabbed the altered line of conversation. He watched Draco dole out the last precious drops of wine, then swept up his glass. His pupils had dilated to eclipse all but a hint of green from his eyes. His breath came in short puffs. Arousal? Draco thought, then rejected the premise on the grounds of pure whimsy. 

"They succeeded and failed in _everything_. Some days it feels like I've no options left."

"There are always options."

"Yes, I know. New paths. Fresh alternatives. I’m not ready to give up yet. Especially now that you're here."

The wine in Draco’s goblet went warm against his palm. Hiding a smile, he replaced it on the table just as the liquid turned hot enough to burn his fingers, stirred by Potter’s magic. The lack of control was endearing in a way. "I'm glad you think so. Frankly, I was concerned you might doubt my level of commitment."

"I don’t doubt you." Potter fixed his gaze on Draco’s glass, grimaced, and the steam lifting off the surface of the wine disappeared. "I’m sorry." His body rose and fell on a deep sigh. "Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy here."

Now there was a scary thought. "Well, then." Draco pushed back from the table. "Let’s get started."

**

There’d be no starting that evening, according to Potter. Not with dusk already descending. With a flick of his wand, the cast iron tub became a second bed. "Tomorrow will be soon enough," Potter said. "Better to tackle the village when you’re rested."

Draco felt fully rested already. Sleeping for two days, magically-induced or not, had left him restless. Then he recalled Potter’s warning of that first afternoon, how even the great savior himself made it a habit not to be in the town after nightfall, and buried his protests. 

He shuffled to the transfigured bed and fingered the soft blankets. No luxury spared for Potter’s _partners_. Years had passed since he’d felt such fine linens. As for the bathtub, he bemoaned its loss in silence. A bone-deep ache plagued his joints. A soak would’ve been welcome, though not exactly relaxing with Potter a few feet away, stripping out of his shoes and robes. Graciousness seemed the best course. "Thank you for the bed."

Potter paused with his arms askew, halfway free of his shirt. His glasses had been knocked crooked, and he straightened them before answering. "Of course. You can keep the one you’ve been sleeping in if you want. I’ve used both before. I usually let the other person have their pick."

The concession left Draco strangely touched. It dredged up childhood memories of when his personal comfort had been the sole focus of many. Though few of those people, he knew now, had been genuinely worried for his wellbeing. Sometimes he regretted the loss of such naiveté. Life had been simpler then. He cleared his suddenly thick throat. "I’m fine with either."

Bare-chested, hands on his hips, Potter did something that jarred Draco to his bones. He grinned. "I don’t recall you being so accommodating, Malfoy." 

Draco fed on that smile like a starving puppy. "Far be it from me to sleight your memory, but I’m actually quite agreeable."

The nonchalant tone earned him another smile from Potter. "You are not."

"No," Draco agreed with a sad sigh. "I’m afraid I’m not."

Potter laughed at that, a hearty carefree sound that undid even more of Draco’s emotional knots. "All right," Potter said. "I’ll take this one. It’s all the same to me, honestly." He threw himself across the mattress, and the bedding inflated around him as he sank into its softness. The humor melted off his face as he stared at the ceiling. Hypnotized by the transformation, Draco lowered himself onto his own bed and watched as Potter scrubbed rough palms over his cheeks. "Sleep—" he began, then stopped to shake his head. 

Draco licked his lips. "Yes?"

"It’s my only escape these days. I go to sleep, and I don’t dream." Potter shrugged. "Not that I remember, anyway. On the other hand, every waking hour feels like a battle." He folded his arms behind his head with a groan. "I thought I’d left those behind me."

Hadn’t they all? Draco's heart inflated with camaraderie. He rose to pinch out the candles on the table. "Then go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning."

Potter rolled to his side. With his cheek pillowed on his folded hands, he looked like a child in prayer. "I’m glad you’re here."

Draco snorted. "No, you’re not."

"I am. I thought about it a lot while you were unconscious. You’re the strongest person they’ve sent me. I feel good about our chances." He stared with honest, sleepy eyes until Draco could no longer bear it. He stretched out on his bed, back to Potter. _You’re the strongest person they’ve sent me._ Flattering perhaps, but the wording struck Draco as odd. Troubling. Not _sent_ , but sent _me_. 

What did Potter mean by that?

**

Potter’s mouth ran like a faucet as they descended the hill.

"You’re the tenth. If I don’t count Ron and Hermione. They didn’t really come to work, just to distract me. I mean—" he glanced at Draco, "they didn’t mean to. But all they wanted to do was sit around and talk about the problem. What have you tried? What _haven’t_ you tried? Are you sure this place is worth the trouble?" A gruff laugh escaped him, bitter and frayed. "But they never raised a hand to help."

That sounded not at all like Granger, a witch who nursed a compulsive need to get her hands dirty when needs dictated. No surprise in regards to Weasley, however. Draco offered a noncommittal sound of support. 

"Some held out longer than others. Susan. Padma. But most just left when they got tired."

"Tired?"

Potter stopped. Eyes on his own feet, Draco noticed too late and stumbled. His shoes slid on the decayed ground cover, and for a moment the possibility that he would slide all the way to the bottom seemed likely. Then Potter’s fingers latched onto his arm. "Steady." His hand lingered longer than it took for Draco to gain his feet. "It’s treacherous this time of morning."

Draco nodded his thanks. "By tired you mean?"

"Tired." Potter’s gaze roamed Draco’s face. "Frustrated. Maybe that’s a better word. Most didn’t have the courage to tell me they were leaving. I don’t know why. I always make my expectations clear from the beginning, and there’s never any "succeed or be ruined" conversation. All I ask is that they try." He resumed picking his way down the hill, following the same narrow path Draco remembered from the first day. "I’m not an ogre," he muttered. 

Now this was priceless. Potter pouting because nobody liked him. Draco made no attempt to hold in his grin. Yet in all fairness, the man didn’t sound petty, merely confused. Draco considered and discarded several answers before speaking. "Do you snore?" In the face of Potter’s bemusement, Draco shrugged a shoulder. "Perhaps it wasn’t the job at all, but the fact that you sound like a rutting hippogriff when you sleep. I imagine those rock walls produce a respectable echo."

Potter’s lips twitched, Draco’s intended effect. "Did I snore last night?"

"I don’t recall," Draco admitted. Strange, as he slept lightly even in the most peaceful of times. 

"Guess it’s not my snoring driving people off then."

"Your cooking?"

Potter’s laughter set a group of redstarts to flight, and they both paused to watch the creatures flutter up through the canopy. An eerie silence fell, which Potter filled with more quiet confessions. "Septima Vector came. Do you remember her? I don’t know if you ever took Arithmancy."

He had, when a career in curse-breaking had filled his youthful dreams. "I knew her."

"I was glad when she left. Terrible to say, but her talents didn’t match up to this kind of work. And…" He frowned at the sky. "I often got the feeling she was testing me, as though we were back at Hogwarts as student and teacher. That kind of dynamic made it hard to enjoy her company."

"Is that so important?"

Potter gave a single nod. "It helps with the loneliness."

"I see." Draco wondered if _he_ would be good company. Years had passed since he’d tried, and this was Potter, of all people. What in the name of Merlin would they talk about?

An eternity in the middle of nowhere had honed Potter’s mindreading skills. He shot Draco a tentative smile. "We’ll be fine, you and I."

"So certain, are you?"

"Yes. Very certain."

They didn’t speak again until they reached the village, leaving Draco several minutes to bask in a long-forgotten emotion: hope.

**

At the edge of the birch forest, where morning sunshine baked away the last of dawn’s chill, Potter stopped and propped a foot atop a tumbled stone wall. It crumbled under his boot, startling a nearby rabbit from its breakfast, and Draco watched it scamper under the foundation. He strained his ears for the twittering redstarts that had followed them from the cave, but couldn’t catch even the faintest echo of their song. "It’s unnaturally quiet here."

Potter nodded. "Battlefields can be like that, when both sides are resting."

True enough, though little peace was ever found in war. "I’m trying to understand this, Potter. You spend your days rebuilding this place, only to have some phantom Dark magic undo all our work as you sleep."

"Not just when I sleep. I’ve _seen_ it happen." Jaw set, he panned his gaze over the sprawling, broken town below them. 

"Immediately?"

"There doesn’t seem to be a pattern. Some places may stand for weeks. Others fall down after one day. They just…" Potter spread his hands in front of him. "…shake apart."

Draco considered the apparent randomness of the destruction. "Is this presence sentient?"

Distaste flitted across Potter’s face. He sat himself on a piece of fallen wall. "The Darkness... how to describe it?" Once more, he lifted his eyes to the sky. "Insidious."

"Insidious?"

"Sneaky." Potter spat the word. "Patient." He said this one with a bit more respect. "It’s like water, slipping through my fingers. Escaping into the ground and the air only to reform somewhere else, where I’m unable to challenge it." His eyes lit with a sudden epiphany. "Cowardly."

The problem, and the difficulties stemming from it, took shape in Draco’s mind. Cowardly, Potter called it. Well of course he would. Gryffindor to the bone, Harry Potter. Anyone or anything that chose to run and hide instead of stand and fight was undeserving of his respect. He couldn’t defeat this thing on his own terms, and it infuriated him. Draco too looked to the sky, prayed for patience, then took a seat next to Potter. "This is no battle, then, but a war."

Scowling, Potter hurled a loose stone at the tumbled ruins, and the rabbit bolted from its hole to scurry down the hill. 

"Where do you stand at the moment?" Draco asked.

Potter took his time answering, a good sign, although his ability to keep his emotions off his face hadn’t improved in three years. Frustration filled his expression, whether it derived from the situation or from the explanation of the situation, Draco couldn’t be certain. 

"I believe I’m winning, but that could change in a heartbeat. It often does, actually."

A stalemate. At one point in his life, Draco had enjoyed some success in breaking those. "How can you tell?"

"Two things. The condition of the village is the most visible measure."

And Potter thought he was winning? "But there’s nothing standing in the village."

"In the parts you saw, no." 

"And the second thing?"

Potter stood, extending into a stretch. Finger wiggling above his head, he jerked his chin towards the path. "Nothing tangible. Just a feeling that the evil is weakening. Struggling."

Draco couldn't hold back his eye roll at the unrestrained glee in Potter's voice. Gryffindors and their catfights. 

"Come on," Potter said. "I’ll show you."

They walked around the house’s skeleton and into the village proper, Draco a few steps behind Potter. "I switched tactics awhile back," Potter said over his shoulder. "Gave up on brute force. That helped my cause, surprisingly."

Why was that surprising? It said much that Potter still believed he could win everything by sheer display of power. "And your refined strategy?"

Again, Potter stopped suddenly, but this time Draco wasn’t caught unawares. He halted three paces back, brows lifting as Potter turned. "Wear it down slowly. Better to bend than break. You know the saying, Malfoy."

He knew it well. Had lived it, in fact. " _Is_ this small piece of land in the middle of nowhere really worth all this trouble?"

"Now you sound like Ron and Hermione."

"I thought we were trying not to insult each other."

Potter let the teasing pass. "We need this place, Malfoy. There are people in our world who want a haven like this one. A place where no one can find them. Plus, you can’t think it’s safe to leave a Dark force like this alone. Anyone could stumble across it. Use it."

Potter raised a fair point. "Then why not bring in an army of Aurors? Beat it back once and for all."

"I told you. That doesn’t work. We’ve tried. The key seems to be to wear it down over time." 

Such a premise contravened everything Draco knew about Dark magic, which was quite a bit. But he couldn’t forget he was the newcomer here. A novice compared to Potter. 

He followed Potter to a section of the village he’d bypassed yesterday, tilting his head in question when Potter held him up with a gesture. "Hopefully it’s still standing," Potter said. "I haven’t been here in two days."

No, he’d been playing nursemaid instead. Draco cringed. "That's my fault. No matter. We can always rebuild it."

"It's not your fault. Stop thinking that." Potter sighed. "I wanted to show you how it looked when whole. So maybe you’d appreciate its value a bit."

"I'm not leaving, Potter. Even if you snore or try to poison me with bad cooking."

Potter ducked his head, but Draco caught a glimpse of the pleased smile he'd tried to hide. 

"Just a moment," Potter said, slipping around the corner onto the next street. Left to his own devices, Draco twirled his wand between his fingers, pretending to inspect the buildings to either side while he surreptitiously checked for danger. Some habits died hard. And the feeling of being watched hadn’t abated since his arrival.

Potter jogged back into sight, face stretched into a grin. "It’s fine." He reached to touch Draco, seemed to think better of it at the last second, and beckoned him forward. "Come on. Take a look."

Wand in hand, Draco turned the corner… and stepped into a different village. A place of half-timbered shops with small diamond-paned windows and quaint houses with over-sailing upper stories. The street sang with renewed life, reminding Draco of Hogsmeade with its sense of stability and wondrous variety. He turned to the nearest structure, a small home tucked between a café and corner shop.

A proper cottage was a thing a beauty. It poured comfort and warmth into the space around it, more than any white marble manor with its endless, echoing hallways and empty, dead spaces. No grand architecture existed here. Just an odd, irregular form and various harmonious colors, the effects of weather, time, and accident. Potter had recreated it perfectly. Environed with sweet old-fashioned garden flowers, its thatched roof, high gabled front, and inviting porch overgrown with creepers all contributed to its charm. 

"Yes," Draco said, reverent. "I see what you mean now."

He sensed Potter come up behind him. The man made the very air around him ring. "I wasn’t sure you’d understand," Potter said. "I know you grew up with so much more."

And so much less. "I often dreamed of living in a place like this." He sensed Potter’s curious gaze, and his courage wavered. But it’d be too awkward to turn back now, even had he wanted to. "I know you believe I had a flawless childhood. I _was_ indulged," he muttered, stepping forward to finger a hedge bloom. "But sometimes I longed for a home like this."

"Like this?" Potter frowned, studying the cottage closely. "Why?"

"Well." Draco rubbed the flower’s scent between his fingers. "There would be nowhere to hide, you see."

"You hid from your parents?"

"No. But they did like to hide from me. I demanded too much attention. In hindsight, even I can see that." He sidestepped Potter’s hand when it landed on his shoulder. "Enough oversharing, I think. Exceptional work, Potter. You have an eye for detail."

Potter pursed his lips, clearly struggling with how to answer. "Thank you. I spent enough time imagining such a place." He panned his gaze down the street. "In a way, it’s like being able to fulfill a fantasy. Create something I always wanted, but never had."

He’d heard rumors of Potter’s Muggle relatives, most of it nonsense, surely. "I’ve shared my youthful woes. It only seems fair you do the same. Do tell, Potter. What did you hate about your childhood?" He countered Potter’s incredulous look with an eye roll. "Before Hogwarts, of course." No need to air the obvious objects of his hatred from school, since Draco knew he’d be relatively high on the list.

Potter’s mouth turned up into a lopsided smile. "All of it?"

"And here I thought Weasley was the dramatic one." 

Since he’d blended his remark with a slight smile, Potter took it with good humor. "To which Weasley are you referring?"

"Is it a competition?"

"Oh, yes."

Pure, honest laughter bubbled up Draco’s throat. "I’ll refrain from answering, in the interest of preserving the peace between us."

Potter accepted that with a wry smile. As one, they turned to walk up the street, pace unhurried. "I did, though," Potter said. "Hate my entire childhood. Lived in a cupboard until I went to Hogwarts." He nodded an affirmation when Draco’s eyebrows shot up. "Under our stairs."

"For ten years."

"Yes. But it was mine, at least. And when I was in there, they would often forget about me. Which came in handy. Made it easier to avoid a beating."

Would a Gryffindor tell such a farfetched lie? Probably not. And what was worse, a Gryffindor wouldn’t shy away from blurting such a terrible truth. Especially this Gryffindor. More of Draco’s decade-old preconceptions shifted. At this rate, collapse might be inevitable, not unlike the buildings in Potter’s village. "I…"

Potter’s hand drifted to his shoulder once more. "I know. Thank you."

**

Potter’s eye for detail extended to the mundane as well. He instructed Draco on how to check for a stable foundation, the best spells for levitation of heavy objects, and was masterful at fusing stained glass. The first day ended with Potter praising Draco for his endurance, as well as his spellcasting.

Draco leafed through his repertoire of acceptable retorts, but the menu seemed stale and boring suddenly. And Potter, damn the man, thought nothing of ripping it away with a child’s glee. 

"Come on, Malfoy." He threw an arm around Draco’s shoulders. "It’s acceptable to be proud of yourself once in a while."

"I’ve been proud of myself all too often." Another slip of the tongue. Another instance of Potter pulling truth from his lips. He'd become quite good at that since they'd last met.

Potter dropped his gaze, though he remained pressed to Draco’s side. "In that case, you should know that _I’m_ very proud of you. You’ve no idea how much easier this was than usual. I’ve never accomplished so much in one day. Thank you."

What harm to bask in honest praise? "You’re welcome."

Potter continued to embrace him, his presence visceral and impossible to ignore, and between one heartbeat and the next, Draco’s pride and pleasure blended into the near-forgotten pull of desire. It sank through his chest to a spot below his navel and quivered there. Choking down a gasp, he lurched away before the heat blazing through him became impossible to hide. "All done for the day?"

"Yes." Potter tilted his head, looking enough like a kicked puppy that Draco almost confessed his inappropriate and—he was certain—unwelcome reaction to Potter’s kind words and firm touch. "It gets dark quickly here. We shouldn’t linger."

No. The thought of repeating his last climb up the hill banked Draco’s lust. He turned his back on the fruits of his labor and joined Potter for the trek home.

**

The following days began and ended in much the same way, with Potter’s exuberance and confidence accelerating at near-frightening speed as each morning they discovered the village intact. Draco’s existence narrowed. Focused. Calmed. Meals were simple, evenings were spent in occasional conversation. Theirs was a companionable partnership.

Potter began to touch him more than propriety required. Since the assignment had obviously left him starved for human contact, Draco endured it, though it wrought havoc on his ability to concentrate. Especially when Potter would shed his robes, roll up his shirtsleeves, and cast magic in effortless abandon. Those times would leave Draco overheated, damp with needy perspiration. Perhaps Potter wasn’t the only one starving. 

On the seventh day, they separated, and everything changed. 

It had become their habit to discuss their plan of attack on their way down the hill. That morning, Potter halted just inside the tree line and gestured Draco forward. Within the footprint of the fallen house, the resident rabbit chewed a stalk of grass, ears twitching in their direction. 

Potter broke the silence. "Let’s divide our efforts today."

"Are you sure that’s wise?"

Potter answered with a distracted nod. His unfocused gaze, aimed at the horizon, never wavered. "I gave it a lot of thought last night. We’ll be able to accomplish more, and you’re very capable."

Though it was possible the compliment had been thrown in for Draco’s benefit, Potter had yet to smother him with false reassurances. And as ideas went, it contained some merit. The sheer quantity of what they could accomplish would rise. Perhaps. Then again, they could just as easily split their efforts and remain together, each concentrating on a different side of the street. The adage ‘safety in numbers’ had several centuries of practical success. 

Draco found it more difficult than he expected to voice a dissenting opinion. The not-so-old fear that Potter would think him cowardly threatened his self-confidence. Yet he’d never been placidly obedient. He’d _often_ questioned his orders, and it was a habit he’d yet to break. Swallowing his pride, he asked, "It’s possible our proximity—our shared strength—is what’s kept the Darkness at bay. Splitting up might dissolve our advantage."

Potter’s lips thinned into a tight line, and Draco held his breath. Suddenly, he wished to take his words back. Relive the conversation so that the unique peace they’d created remained undisturbed. Unchallenged. He spoke over the beginning of Potter’s reply. "Actually, splitting up might be a wise idea. Where should we start?"

Potter swung his empty gaze to Draco, then blinked three times. "Are you sure you agree? This is a team effort. Don’t hesitate to speak your mind."

He _hadn’t_ hesitated. Had Potter missed the last thirty seconds of the conversation? "No, I agree. We should give it a try," he said, shaking off Potter's odd behavior. "I’ll take the street east of the market, the one we passed yesterday."

Potter nodded. "And I’ll take the stretch of houses in the northwest corner. I’ve yet to try my luck there."

"Fine," Draco said. "Meet back here in three hours?" He waited for Potter’s agreement before setting off, eyes on his feet.

He felt it immediately. The weight of being watched, as though a thousand people hid in the ruins. The thought stopped him dead on a steep, narrow avenue. Buildings rose on both sides, their crumbling doors and broken windows hiding pockets of shadow. Well, why not? How did Potter _know_ they were alone? Draco wouldn’t deny a Dark force dwelled here, but one powerful enough to shake apart stone? The odds were long. A witch with a wand, however, could accomplish such a thing with a few whispered words. 

Now this was a theory that made some sense. Potter hadn’t been dealing with some mystical force, but a band of troublemakers. Since sustained focus wasn’t the hallmark of disorganized rabble, Draco guessed a faction of his old acquaintances had set up house nearby. Fugitive Death Eaters, seeking to drive the Ministry out and keep the town for themselves. 

He knew the perpetrators well. Goyle and Rookwood. Macnair. But the last of Voldemort’s followers were weak, no match for Potter. The smallest hint of his strength would send them skittering away, tails between their legs. Of course they'd stayed hidden, never daring to attack him directly. 

A rumbling, deep in the earth, disrupted his thoughts. The faintest sound of splintering glass reached his ears. Draco drew his wand. Somewhere close, a building was falling. He sprang forward, following the echoes of movement in the ground, zigzagging his way to the source of the destruction. 

Another rumble, the strongest of all, lifted him off his feet, and he stumbled. A sharp crack filled his ears, another booming crash, then the morning went silent. Draco sprang to his feet and ran through the hollowed-out shell of a two-story building into cloying dust and debris so thick it dimmed the morning sunlight.

A figure stood before the collapsed house, head bowed, wand clutched tightly in his fist. Draco squinted through the settling fog. "Potter?"

Potter threw his wand to the ground and tilted his head back, releasing a howl of frustration that went to Draco’s bones.

**

"If you’re blaming yourself," Potter said later that night. "Don’t."

"I’m not." Draco pulled the blankets higher on his chest. But he was wallowing in a deep pool of _why_ , because their strategy had been working. _Everything_ had been working, including his growing friendship with Potter, and Draco had let himself believe he was the impetus for that success. 

He sighed, glancing across the cave toward the other bed. Sometimes Potter would leave a candle burning on the table where they ate. Halfway between their beds, it helped bridge the distance between them. Made it easier to talk. And when they did, Potter was funny and irreverent and interesting. He drew similar reactions from Draco. They laughed together, and more times than not, Draco fell asleep believing they were building towards something. 

"Potter, have you considered you might not be alone here?"

"Every time I check the tin for a biscuit. How is it that as much as you eat, you’re not twice my size?"

"Says the man who can devour a loaf of bread in one go."

Potter’s chuckle carried through the cave. "What do you mean, am I sure we’re alone?"

"Have you considered there could be other people destroying the village?"

Potter hummed. "There aren’t."

"But how do you know?"

"I know." Potter lifted onto an elbow to stare at Draco. The flickering candle cast more shadow than light, and for a moment Draco thought he saw a different head on Potter’s body. Horned, with a twisted face. "I’d know if anyone else were here," Potter said. "Believe me, we’re alone."

Heart slamming in his chest, Draco squeezed his eyes shut, counted to three, then reopened them to the scene before him. Potter had scooted to a sitting position and was fumbling his glasses onto his face. His normal, human face. "Are you all right, Malfoy?"

"Yes. Sorry. My imagination got away from me for a moment." He pulled a pillow against his chest and drew a deep breath. "But how can you be certain?"

"I have wards set up. Oh, stop with that look. Hermione cast them. They’re more than adequate."

If Granger had erected them, Draco knew a flea would have trouble finding a way in. So they were, in fact, alone. That suited him fine. He didn’t relish meeting any of his father’s old friends. It didn't solve the problem of the faceless force they battled, though. "No human saboteurs."

"No." Potter tossed his glasses aside and burrowed back under his blankets. "Strangers mucking about, that had been Hermione’s thought as well. But in the end, there was nobody. Just me."

His self-deprecation hung in the air like a bad odor, and Draco scrambled to dissolve it. "You’ll beat this thing, Potter. You’ll win."

"Maybe. With you here, maybe I will."

**

Many good days passed after that. Potter celebrated their success with more fleeting touches and secret smiles, doling them out with precision, until Draco lived for each instance, a veritable addict.

Potter’s favorite affectionate gesture was to clasp his hand loosely across the back of Draco’s neck. When his fingers would linger a few seconds to stroke the soft skin below Draco’s hairline, the world would stop, stretching into deep pulses of contentment that made Draco confess sad, little stories he’d never shared with anyone else. Potter always listened intently and even shared a few of his own. 

"I waited three years for this," Draco told Potter one day.

Potter wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. He’d slipped his robe off an hour before, mumbling about unseasonable warmth. Dirt smudged across one cheek, he faced Draco, hands on his hips. "For this in particular?" He cocked his head. "Since when did you become a glutton for punishment?"

"Accident of birth. You’ll find it goes hand in hand with the family name."

The mirth faded from Potter’s face. The pity that replaced it made Draco wish he’d never broached the subject, even in jest. 

Naturally, Potter wouldn’t let the topic die, even as he turned back to the structure in front of him. "What do you mean exactly by ‘waited three years’?"

"This is my community sentence. Helping you."

"Community sentence?" Potter lowered his wand and gave his full attention over to Draco. "For what?"

His question lacked enough sarcasm that Draco felt momentarily at a loss. Was it possible Potter didn’t know about his trial? "For my war crimes. Try to keep up, Potter."

Potter brushed at Draco’s attempted levity as he would a bothersome fly. "What war crimes? You were pardoned, weren’t you? Age and circumstance. All the students were."

"I was offered a pardon." What a battle that had been, his pride pitted against unconditional forgiveness. "I didn’t take it."

 _Why not?_ he expected Potter to say. Or perhaps, _Are you mad?_ Those had been the stock responses from his yearmates. He hadn’t tried to explain. It had been a private decision, based on years of self-betrayal. To have taken such an offer would have smothered the last spark inside him—the vestige of the small boy who’d wanted nothing more than to be a good person.

Potter approached slowly, stripping the work gloves off his hands. "That sounds like you," he said when he joined Draco in the middle of the street. 

"Don’t presume that. You don’t know me."

"I _do_ know you."

"You know only what I want you to see. That’s—"

"—the way you are." Potter’s smile held the sun’s warmth. "But you're different now. Here. With me. You’re different."

"I’m really not."

Potter continued unabated, but a satisfied smile had replaced his frown. "So this task. Helping me restore this town. It’s more than the fact that you're being made to do it. You’re searching for something."

"Aren’t we all?"

Absurdly, his churlish response brightened Potter’s smile. "Have you found it?"

"Yes." _Unequivocally yes _, he thought as Potter lifted a warm palm and cupped it around his neck.__

__

____

**

Draco frowned at the tangle of support beams crushed under the clay roofing tiles. He’d found similar problems over the past week, but Potter was the true expert. "What do you make of this, Potter?"

Whistling wind answered him. Grumbling under his breath, Draco scooted backward out of the collapsed storefront and scanned the street. No sign of Potter. Damn the man. He wandered more than an unruly child. "Potter!" 

Up the street, Potter appeared in the doorway of a one-story home they’d recently rebuilt. He lifted a hand, in greeting Draco assumed, but instead of waving, reached to grip the doorframe above his head. He made no reply. 

Draco squinted to make out the details of his features, but the sun’s angle made such a study impossible. "Potter!" he called again and gestured him closer. "Come have a look at this."

Forgoing a verbal response, Potter emerged from the doorway’s shadow, but as he did, Draco felt a faint vibration race through the ground beneath his feet. Dust rained down inside the building he’d just crawled through. Potter, he saw, hesitated, then turned back into the darkness. An icy foreboding crashed through Draco, rocking him back onto his heels. "No!"

It manifested like the worst nightmare. Draco watched helplessly as the house that held Potter began to sway. The fresh thatch made a _crunch crunch_ sound as it buckled, exposing the roof beams at both ends. Draco wasted no more of his energy on shouting and sprinted down the street, jumping through the doorway into the room beyond.

Potter stood in the center of the space, back to Draco. Wand in hand, he chanted an angry, unrecognizable incantation. Draco skidded to a halt by his side. "Potter, let it go."

Still, Potter cast his spells. All around them, the stone walls began a fine vibration. 

"Let it go! It’s not worth dying over." Patience at an end, Draco grabbed him by the arm and pulled. He felt Potter resist, both with his physical body and with the magic swirling from the tip of his wand. 

No. No, he refused to lose this man.

"Potter," he said, drawing close. "I said I wouldn't leave. So don’t you either, you stubborn bastard."

Potter turned his cheek so that Draco’s lips brushed rough stubble. Breathing labored, he gasped something, but it was lost in the crack of ceiling timber. Draco ducked, and this time Potter’s body moved with his. Crowing in triumph, Draco pushed, both with his hands and his magic, and Potter flew across the room toward the crumbling doorway. A falling plank caught his foot when he crossed the threshold, and he gave a howl of pain as he fell back onto the street. Satisfied, Draco threw himself on the floor and prayed. Hot sunshine hit his back as the roof failed, and for a split second, he felt warm. Then the light disappeared, and the air was sucked away. A bulky weight landed on his back, and he felt several of his ribs crack. He tried to draw breath. Couldn’t. Dizzy, he waited for panic and death, but neither came calling. Potter arrived instead, lifting whole sections of roof from atop him with hoarsely shouted spells. 

"Draco!"

"Here," Draco wheezed, lifting a hand to catch Potter’s attention, thankful he still had the ability to do so.

"You idiot. You bloody _idiot_!"

"Now that’s uncalled for," Draco complained as Potter helped him carefully to his feet. They overbalanced, toppled, and a bright flash of pain ripped through Draco’s chest and brought tears to his eyes. 

"What is it?" Blood oozing from numerous cuts and scrapes, Potter hovered over him.

"Nothing. Bruised a couple of ribs, I think. You?"

"My ankle," Potter admitted. They both took stock of the destruction, but neither commented on it. Potter allowed himself one show of anger, slashing his wand at the small patch of intact roofing. It dropped to join the rest, landing with a pathetic plop, and Potter sighed. "I’m tired. Let’s quit early today."

Draco laughed, then tried not to pass out on the wave of agony that followed. "If you insist."

**

They limped up the hill to the cave, arms locked around each other’s waists. Potter hissed as they stumbled over the uneven ground, and Draco hoisted him higher to take weight off his injured ankle. The move sent a bolt of pain across his chest. "Fuck," he breathed, doubling over. His grip on Potter faltered.

"Let’s stop for a minute." Potter’s graveled voice had grown unrecognizable. 

Hobbled by the agony of his broken ribs, Draco had trouble getting his own words out. "Not until I’m sure we’re out of danger." They needed to clear the forest and reach the cave before their strength gave out. 

Potter’s forehead fell against Draco’s temple. "Noble bastard."

"Watch your mouth," Draco said into Potter’s hair. "That’s the sort of insult I won’t tolerate."

"Bastard?"

" _Noble_."

Potter’s wheezing laughter sent them careening into a tree, and Draco felt it only fitting to reward him with a sharp smack to his cheek. "Concentrate."

"As soon as I can stand without falling, you’re going to regret that." Potter worked his jaw back and forth, bloodied palm leaving grotesque streaks on his face. 

Was there threat in his tone? Impossible to tell with his voice garbled by pain. But Draco took the twitch in Potter’s lips as macabre amusement instead of murderous intent. "Just warn me ahead of time so I can brace for the blow." 

"Who says I’m going to hit you."

Oh, those words, whispered against his cheek as a lover might utter them. Potter’s body vibrating against his, warm and solid. Draco’s pain had left him desperate to distract himself, but this fantasy would only end in disappointment. Gryffindor pride would probably demand Potter go celibate for a century before taking pleasure with Draco. He gritted his teeth and slung Potter’s arm around his neck. "Hold on. We’re almost there." 

Yet it took the better part of an hour to reach the cave’s entrance. Calling upon some old war-time tricks, Draco bore the pain of carrying both his and Potter’s weight, but the sight of home undid his mental walls. He managed to lower Potter to a boulder at the mouth of the cave before stumbling away to retch up his meager breakfast. Being sick magnified the pain in his ribs tenfold. Bright spots danced at the edges of his vision. 

"Drink this." A steady arm slipped around his shoulders as a light blue potion, cased in a glass vial, appeared in front of his face. Draco closed his eyes and shuddered. 

"I won’t be able to keep it down."

"Ten seconds. That’s all it’s going to take to kill the pain."

Draco considered the vial, then his stomach. He spat, then swept a shaking hand across his mouth. "Give it here." Mercifully, the taste was palatable, and the potion stayed where it belonged. It may have been only seconds later, although it felt like years, that Draco emerged from his agony-induced fog to find himself and Potter practically snuggling on a moss-covered slab of sandstone. 

It was weak to cherish physical contact, but Draco had come to terms with personal weakness since the end of the war. He wouldn’t be lingering over a cuddle with Weasley, and he was man enough to admit it. No, this was about Potter. He drew one more deep breath, memorized how Potter’s hand felt skimming over his arm, then eased away. "Much better. Thank you."

Potter sat up with a groan and frowned at his swollen ankle. "Bugger."

"It could have been worse."

"Much worse." Potter covered Draco’s hand with his, leaving him to wonder at many things at once, not the least of which was why Potter didn’t choose a companionable slap on the back to make his point. "I would’ve died if you hadn’t been there."

Few forces in the world would have any luck ending Harry Potter. "Doubtful." He stood before Potter could spill more platitudes. "Inside. I want a look at that ankle. And don’t put too much pressure on it. Just because you’ve numbed the pain doesn’t mean you’ve undone the damage."

"You missed your calling, Healer Malfoy." With a wince, Potter obeyed, limping ahead into the dark reaches of the cave. He lit the dozens of candles with a casual wave of his hand. Draco was glad to be bringing up the rear of their procession, where his awe at the casual show of power went unnoticed. It jolted him low in the stomach, unmistakably sexual. He pressed a hand to his racing heart before speaking.

"On the bed." 

"Fine." Potter flung himself onto the mattress with all the dignity of a spoiled brat. "But you need as much attention as I do."

"No one needs as much attention as you do."

The words, sprung from his memories of previous encounters, tasted wrong. Of course they did. The very idea was ridiculous. Obsolete. Potter lived alone in a cave, doing work very few would ever appreciate. And before this? Potter’s life had borne little resemblance to how Draco had imagined it, a bias he'd been working to resolve. He shoved Potter further up the mattress, tossing a pillow at his chest. "Elevate that foot."

"Yes, master."

Draco froze, limbs locking with a child’s primal fear, and for long moments, drawing breath was impossible. 

"Draco?"

Potter’s voice broke his paralysis, but did little for the pinpricks of dread erupting along the back of his neck and across his shoulders. Swallowing, he set his trembling fingers to Potter’s boot laces. "Don’t call me that."

Potter’s utter stillness gave little away. Draco busied himself working off the mangled boot and put the angry tears back where they belonged. Deep inside for no one to find.

"I’m sorry," Potter said. "I’m so sorry."

He hadn’t wanted an apology. Head bowed, he worked the boot side to side gently, easing it off Potter’s swollen ankle with the utmost care. 

"Draco."

"Leave it. It’s fine."

"No, it’s not fine. That was incredibly stupid and insensitive. You’re nothing like him. _Nothing_. I didn’t mean anything by it."

Which was the part that hurt the most. He'd thought they'd grown closer than this. More careful of each other's feelings. "Slip of the tongue. Apology accepted."

"I just—"

Draco let go and backed away before he could yank the boot off in frustration. "Enough!" He took a steadying breath. "That rubbish the Healers spout, about facing the bad memories. Talking about them. It’s bollocks. It doesn’t heal anything." He met Potter’s wrecked gaze. "I've worked hard to put what happened behind me. I'm proud of that. But I don't think the memories will ever go away. And perhaps… perhaps they shouldn't. That doesn't change the fact I don't want to talk about them. So can we stop?"

Expectancy filled the air. Potter wanted to say more, but Draco saw the moment his brain won the battle. Mouth clamped shut, he settled onto the blankets, gaze fixed on the ceiling. His complacency lasted long enough for Draco to bare his injured ankle and whisper a handful of healing spells. Then he said, "I’m sorry. But it helps me. I’m not saying… I’m not trying to compare us, but… would it bother you if _I_ talked about the bad things sometimes?"

Would it? Draco considered the request. He couldn’t see it healing any of his own wounds, but if it helped Potter… A kernel of warmth, no bigger than a skipping stone bloomed in his chest. If it helped Potter, he'd listen. "I can’t promise I’ll say the right things." Draco’s lack of empathy filled out their personal history, after all. Listen to Potter’s woes? Why the man even wanted such a thing was beyond him. But that he did meant more than Draco could admit. "You can if you like."

"I'm positive you’re a better listener than you think." Potter gave his toes an experimental wiggle. "That feels much better. Thank you. Now you."

Draco traded places without complaint, but said, "There’s no need. I’m proficient in basic healing spells."

"So am I. Hazard of being on our own during the last part of the war. Hermione pounded them into me. And I’ve put myself back together more than once these past two years." He pointed at Draco’s shirt. "Get rid of that."

Frowning at the filthy, tattered T-shirt, Draco grabbed the hem and began to strip it off, but even the potion couldn’t mask the pain that exploded through his chest as he lifted his arms. His vision went white. "I don’t think I can," he admitted. A clammy sweat broke across his brow, and his teeth stared to chatter. "The potion’s wearing off."

The words, or maybe the tremble in his voice, got Potter’s attention. "That was fast. Too fast. Are you sure it’s only a couple of bruised ribs?"

Is that what he’d said? All he remembered in the aftermath of the collapse was getting Potter to safety. "Fairly sure."

He heard the subtle swish of a wand. A cool breeze touched his chest. His shirt had disappeared, and Potter hadn’t spoken a word to make it happen. More non-verbal magic. A show of strength when one was hardly needed. It smacked of hubris, yet one look at the concern swirling in Potter’s eyes dispelled the idea. 

Potter hissed as he studied Draco’s torso, then met his gaze squarely. "It’s more than bruised ribs, that’s for certain. I can put you to sleep while the spells work. To spare you any pain."

Tempting, but he couldn’t leave himself even more vulnerable. Potter had already flayed him open emotionally with his hesitant request. Draco shook his head.

"Draco." Potter took up his wand in one hand. With the other, he smoothed Draco’s fringe from his forehead. "It’s okay. You’re safe with me."

At Draco’s center, the knot tied around his emotions—the one he’d put there to protect himself—eased. Several snarls unraveled, straining toward the fading notes of Potter’s confession. _You’re safe with me._ Such a phrase would give a child comfort, but a grown man with Draco’s experience should know better. Why, then, did the idea make him ache with the need to believe it? 

"Malfoy? Draco?"

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes. All right." Potter’s fingers cupped his cheek, and a gentle tingle spread outward. He sank into unconsciousness, but it seemed only seconds later that he resurfaced. It no longer hurt to take a breath, and Potter was talking. 

"I told Dumbledore once that I didn’t want to kill anyone," Potter said, voice low and close. "It was a complete lie. Probably the only one I ever slipped past him. He wanted to believe it, so he did. He wanted to think I was a good person inside. That even when I had to kill, I hated it."

Draco opened his eyes to deep shadows and flickering candlelight. Through the grate in the window high above, stars shone in a black sky. Potter had rearranged him on the bed. Put his head on a pillow and tucked him under a blanket. Gingerly, Draco reached to probe his ribs. Nothing but a mild ache greeted his fingers. 

"You’re awake?" Potter asked.

"Yes." Eyes on the twinkling stars, he reached out and met cool skin. Potter—next to him, but atop the blankets. The night was far too cold for that. Draco tugged at the bedcovers. "You’re freezing. Get in." 

Potter obeyed but stopped short of touching him, hovering scant inches away. "I didn’t hate it," he whispered. 

Draco cast his mind back for the reference, biting his lip when he connected the two ends of the conversation. "That’s nothing to be ashamed of."

"I’m allowed to enjoy killing a person?"

How to explain without confusing the matter more? Draco shifted, and his thigh brushed Potter’s. "I meant that you’re allowed to hate someone enough to want to end them. Everyone has that privilege."

"But not everyone acts on it."

"You’re oversimplifying. Ending a life requires courage. Perhaps more courage than most people have, which is _why_ so few act on it."

Potter snorted. "By your measure, the world is full of cowards then."

"The world is teeming with cowards."

He sensed Potter chewing on his words. "It’s partly evil, in that case," Potter said. "Courage, I mean."

"It’s impure, that’s true enough. That doesn’t make it bad." Draco shifted so they lay face to face. "Listen, Potter. You’re brave enough to take someone’s life. You’ve demonstrated that. That you don’t cut people down on a whim proves a lot. It proves _everything_. Don’t get bogged down by the rest of it."

Unbelievably, Potter’s mouth turned up into a tentative smile. "I said you’d be a good listener, didn’t I?"

It’d grown warm under the blankets. Potter had lost his chill. At his teasing words, Draco’s body heated further, bringing a flush to his cheeks and other inconvenient places. They were so close that the tiniest shift would reveal his arousal. His body ached to be touched, but his mind balked at revealing how a few kind words went to his core. "Don’t get accustomed to it."

Potter shook his head, smile fading as his gaze fell to Draco’s chest. "I got a good look at those while you were sleeping."

Draco braced himself when the rough pads of Potter’s fingers alighted on his skin. With infinite slowness, Potter outlined the pale, puckered scars crisscrossing Draco’s chest. "The day this happened. I wasn’t trying to kill you."

Of course he hadn’t been. They’d been children, no matter how circumstances had prematurely aged them. Young and foolish, and both had paid the price for it. But the details of that fateful day made no difference now. Not while Potter was caressing him. 

The entire universe existed in Potter’s fingertips. Draco’s scars were mostly numb—always would be according to the Healers—but magic radiated from those soft, tentative touches. Like ripples on a still pond, waves of sensation radiated to the far reaches of Draco’s fingers and toes with every rapid, pounding heartbeat. The entire mass of his body rushed inward, concentrated in his groin, grew heavy and full, leaving his arms and legs weightless. And still all Potter did was follow the path of Draco’s scars like a child tracing a picture through parchment. 

A needy groan escaped Draco’s throat, and Potter echoed it, lips parting on quick, shallow breaths. His hungry gaze roamed after his fingers, fanning Draco’s lust. If these small touches undid his composure so completely, the full experience of Potter’s hard, eager body might destroy him. He choked out a word, a desperate "please," and the spell broke. 

Potter withdrew, but not far. His eyes glittered with refracted candlelight. "I’d like to show you something." The reverence in his voice held Draco’s saucy retort in check. The conscious effort to redirect his thoughts made him tremble, and Potter noticed, of course. "You’re shaking. Residual shock?"

Residual something. "Just recovering," he said, which was true enough. 

Potter brushed the blankets back and sat up. "I have something I think will help. No, I’m sure it’ll help." He stood, making no effort to hide the erection stretching his trousers. If the night led to nothing else, at least Draco could take comfort that he hadn’t been the only one affected by Potter’s touches. 

"All right." Draco accepted the helping hand, then arched an eyebrow when Potter stopped him from reaching for his shirt. 

"You won’t need that. Trust me." He started for the back of the cave, gesturing Draco to follow. He did, cautiously. Whatever Potter planned to show him on a sheer wall of rock, it had put an excited spring in his step. Draco lagged as they approached the back wall, senses prickling, but before he could utter a word, Potter made a sharp right turn… and disappeared. 

Shock stopped Draco in his tracks, but curiosity got him moving again quickly. He stepped to the rear wall, and it was only then, nose practically pressed to rock, that he saw the narrow passage into which Potter had disappeared. 

"Brilliant," he muttered, stepping away, then forward to admire how cleverly the narrow tunnel had been hidden. Nothing in the cut or shape of the rock indicated the camouflage was more than a coincidence of nature. 

Potter appeared out of the darkness. Hand outstretched, he beckoned. "Are you coming?"

Pulling in a fortifying breath, Draco squeezed into the narrow passage and slithered sideways, emerging into a wider tunnel before his claustrophobia gained a foothold. Potter waited for him at the top of a carved stone staircase. He looked on the verge of speaking, but instead turned on his heel and descended into the darkness with nothing but meager wandlight as his guide.

Draco followed him down around several turns and into a cavernous hall, invisible in the near-dark, but large, his senses assured him. A familiar smell reached his nose—the tang of metal. Potter lifted his wand, incanted, " _Lumos Maxima_ ", and above them, hidden in the cuts and folds of the cave’s ceiling, shafts of light burst to life and speared downward. 

Draco found himself in a fairyland of stone. A world of twinkling glow worms, precious gems and clear water. A land inhabited by nature alone. A pool spread out before him, stretching as far as he could see, water so clear as to be invisible if not for the ripples marring its surface. Within its depths sat a city of stalagmites, and at their bases lay blue-tinged round stones, smooth as pearls, forming wide avenues. The domed roof extended several meters above their heads, and eerie rock formations filled the space around the pool, abstract yet lifelike. Armored soldiers. Regal beasts. Winged angels. 

He made no attempt to hide his awe, and a glance at Potter showed this had been the proper response. "It’s amazing, Potter. I’ve never seen its like."

The cave’s three dimensional expanse, its context, textures, shape and scope, fascinated him. He could gain no sense of the cavern’s true size, or the water’s depth, and grappled with a sense of falling as he descended deeper, shivering against the damp breeze that wafted up to kiss his skin. To his great embarrassment, he felt his cock filling, becoming as hard as when Potter had touched him. A low, barely-discernible hum sounded in his ears. 

Magic lived here. The sort a man could get drunk on. 

"It must be freezing," he said, unable to keep the disappointment from his tone. They stopped at the lake’s edge, though the staircase continued below the surface. The utter purity of the water made it seem as though they could continue downward to the vast cluster of stalagmites and stroll among them.

"No." Potter crouched and brushed his fingers across the pool's surface. "It’s geo-thermal. Warm all the time."

In this part of the country? Odd, but truly a dream in every way. Draco’s body strained toward the water, anticipating the joy of a hot soak. "You swim here?"

"Every chance I get."

Including then, apparently, because Potter unbuttoned his jeans and slid them over his hips. Even the eerie beauty of the pool couldn't hold Draco's attention as more golden skin came into view. Potter made no effort at modesty, so Draco made no effort to hide his appreciation at the toned, well-proportioned body on display. 

Potter tossed the jeans behind him onto the stairs and stepped into the water. He groaned softly, but Draco paid the sound little mind, keeping his gaze pinned to the firm arse Potter had so graciously turned his way. 

"Malfoy?" Potter laughed as Draco's eyes snapped to his. He held out a welcoming hand. "Coming in?"

"Yes." Potter's cock was as hard as his own, thick and curving toward his navel. This attraction clearly wasn't one-sided, and taking what was on offer became a priority. Draco's hands found and worked open the buttons on his jeans. 

Potter stepped deeper into the pool, hissing as his bollocks skimmed the surface. "You're going to love this." 

No doubt about that. Draco shook away the bothersome clothing and plodded into the water, halting ankle deep on the first step as potent pleasure hit him. Much like Potter had, he tipped his head back and moaned, undone by the ecstasy tingling up through his feet. In a distant part of his brain, an alarm sounded, but Draco silenced it by stepping deeper into the water. The hedonistic bombardment continued. "Amazing," he said, mouth dry with euphoria. 

"I know." Potter's voice echoed through the cave, teasing even more pleasure points. Draco's heart beat wildly in his chest, leaving him dizzy and desperate for more oxygen. A hand took his while he struggled to pull in a full breath. "Come on," Potter said. "It's intense at first, but you get used to it."

He'd have to or die. No one could endure this crest of pleasure forever. Not without losing their sanity. He let Potter pull him deeper until they stood chest to chest in a seemingly endless well of bliss. Draco could hear himself expelling quiet moans with each breath, reveling in Potter's touches. Perhaps Potter meant the contact to be soothing, but every brush of fingers brought another zing of pleasure. Beneath the water, Potter's cock bobbed close to his, brushing Draco's thighs and stomach occasionally, but never lingering where he needed it most—pressed tight against his own.

Dangerously close to losing control, Draco raised a shaking hand and planted it against Harry's chest. The connection doubled his lust, and the pressure building in his groin grew painful. "I need—" He left it at that, and plunged his other hand into the water to grip his straining cock. 

"No." Harry drew him closer, crooning in his ear. He peeled Draco's finger away. "If you need something, use me, but let it take you there in its own time. The feelings are so pure. So perfect. There's nothing to be afraid of here. This is good magic, I promise."

The words confused him. It was _Potter_ he wanted, not some false and nameless magic. He'd been seduced by such things in the past. Often, as it happened, and the source always had an agenda. Good attributes like virtue and integrity were rarely about self-indulgence, but rather self-denial, a contradiction no less baffling for its accuracy. This felt altogether different than "good magic." Then again, his experiences with such things were negligible. He let the troublesome thought go and unclenched his fingers from his engorged cock. 

Potter hummed his approval. "You're amazing, you know that? So strong." He licked the shell of Draco's ear, sliding his tongue into the folds and grooves of his lobe. Draco's knees buckled, but the water kept him buoyant. That, and Potter's steady hand around his waist. He pulled Draco in tight, and their cocks kissed once before sliding together. Draco thrust once, helplessly, and Potter echoed the movement. "So good, Draco. I've wanted this for so long."

The words grounded him. A bit of the fog lifted, and Draco celebrated by kissing his way across Potter's throat. "You might have said something before now."

"I honestly didn't have the courage."

Draco pulled back just far enough to catch Potter's gaze. "How can you say that with a straight face?"

"It's true."

"You didn't hesitate today." 

"No. Lying next to you… I couldn't wait any longer." 

That spawned a heady rush of pride. One he planned to exploit. Arm hooked around Potter's waist, Draco drew him back to the shallows. Together they inched up the carved stone steps, Draco on top and Potter beneath, mouths hovering inches apart. "You want to bask in something," Draco said, hauling Potter out of the water. "Bask in me. Just me." 

He took a moment to make sure they were fully clear of the pool, stretched lengthways along the stone. Potter panted beneath him, parted lips too strong an enticement to resist, and Draco swooped down to kiss him. 

Now this was perfection. Not a pervading throb of pleasure, but something far sharper. Centered. Draco was still aware of the hard stone beneath his knees. Of the chill on his skin. But those small discomforts faded and disappeared with Potter's furious kiss. One by one Draco reclaimed other things the pool had sought to claim. Their shared antagonism, for one, carried forward a full decade. Fading, but still simmering below the surface. This encounter would be nothing without it.

Draco made careful work of removing Potter's glasses, and with that last barrier gone, fell upon him, elated when Potter quivered under the assault. The kiss continued, a battle in itself, while Draco settled his full weight on Potter's hard, eager body. Every degree of their combined heat centered in their cocks. Even Potter's lips, slickened by Draco's tongue held a chill. But the hard flesh stroking his own seared him with every thrust.

Potter didn't protest Draco's weight, but Draco turned them anyway, so that they lay side by side on the stone floor, and threw his leg up and over Potter's hip, opening himself for the strength he knew Potter harbored and was perhaps holding back. 

"Come on," Draco growled in his ear. "Fuck me." 

Potter took that as permission to let go. With one hand, he grabbed Draco's leg and clamped it tighter around his waist. The other gathered a fistful of Draco's hair and pulled, exposing the line of his throat to Potter's mouth. His hips snapped forward, cock sliding along Draco's too roughly, the angle imperfect, but exemplary all the same. Draco's body seized with a shockwave of euphoria. "More," he gasped. "More."

With an animalistic growl, Potter obeyed, rutting mindlessly, teeth fastened to Draco's throat. His thrusts slid them inch by inch across the stone, and soon a tingling started in Draco's fingers and toes, the beginnings of an inevitable climax that promised to shake him apart. He went limp in Potter's hold, moaning helplessly, and his surrender sent Potter into a frenzy. He gasped broken words against Draco's skin, a new one for each vicious thrust of his hips. Words that would mean little to anyone else, but went to Draco's core. _Bastard. Forever. Fuck. You. Mine. Mine. Mine._

Draco came with a sharp cry, cursing the swift climb and a peak that felt too intense to endure. Potter followed, bucking and cursing, then shuddered into stillness, mouth pressed to Draco's temple.

**

They spent several days in bed, leaving for short periods each morning to check the state of the village. By some miracle, since Draco had no luck to speak of, the monster they fought had fallen idle. Perhaps it too was under Harry's spell.

Draco segregated their lovemaking from swimming, though he followed Harry to the pool several times to lounge waist-deep in the warmth while Harry dove among the stalagmites to bring pretty blue stones to the surface. Draco took to lining the wooden shelf above their bed with them. 

"Don't you miss your friends?" he asked one day. He sat braced against the headboard. Harry, the footboard. His hair tickled Draco's feet. 

"Yes. Of course." Harry replaced the stone he'd been fondling next to its brothers and chose another. 

"You get lonely."

"Yes, but those are two separate things."

It didn't seem so to Draco. "In what way?"

Harry picked up another stone and jiggled the two together in his palm. "I can miss my friends and be lonely, or not lonely, in turn. Friends aren't always the best cure for loneliness anyway."

Draco snorted, then laughed as Harry smacked this thigh. He caught the attacking hand and squeezed the fingers. " _Your_ friends, maybe."

"No, that's true," Harry said, in a curiously agreeable tone. "They try, though. I'm not an easy friend to have."

"What a ridiculous statement." Harry's nose proved an appropriate target. Draco flicked it with his toe. 

"I have nightmares," Harry said. "Or at least, I used to. Before I came here." With a last thoughtful look at the stones, he held them up, one to each eye. "It's get old, after a while, listening to someone scream in their sleep every night. That's what I heard Ron tell Hermione."

If Draco hadn't been privy to Weasley's losses, he might have voiced his instinctive biting response. But no matter how welcoming Harry might be to the intimate, messy things Draco liked to do to his body, it was doubtful he'd tolerate him besmirching his friends. Saying nothing, however, was impossible. "How compassionate of him. Still, I understand Weasley's concern. He does have a rather pressing need for beauty sleep."

With a reluctant smile pulling at his lips, Harry returned the rocks to the shelf, took up Draco's foot and began a gentle massage.

Draco watched him through sleepy, contented eyes. "What are your nightmares about?"

"You don't want to know."

"If I didn't want to know, I wouldn't have asked."

Harry pressed his thumbs into Draco's high arch. "Mostly about the people who died."

"People you knew."

"Sometimes. Sometimes not."

Harry craved Draco's body, but did he desire his solace? Watching for the slightest hint of rejection, Draco reached to stroke what parts of Harry he could reach. "You're not to blame." Horrified, he watched a tear well at the corner of Harry's eye. It fell, only to be followed by another. Then another. Draco's chest clenched. "Harry, I said you're not to blame."

"I know, but that doesn't make anything better."

**

It took both of them to clear the street. Two wands on the same slab of limestone, lest a slip in concentration leave it shattered in hundreds of pieces, making a giant job of a tiny one. Harry provided the bulk of the spell's strength, Draco, the finer points of its navigation. It settled into place perfectly, and Harry's shoulders lifted on a satisfied sigh. "Good work, Draco."

Those words had yet to lose their luster. "Thank you." He caught Harry's sleeve before he turned away, spinning him so they faced each other, not quite chest to chest, not quite a demand, but a question. 

Harry's flashed him a playful grin. "Did you need something?"

Always. He always needed, and his only consolation was that Harry, by all accounts, needed equally. One step brought them together, melded their bodies, and Harry uttered an eager groan as Draco leaned forward to kiss him. By unspoken agreement, they never made love in the village, but today Harry held fast, extending the kiss, escalating it, allowing his roving hands to tease and stroke the places that stripped Draco of all reason. In another minute, he'd lie down on the bumpy cobblestones and spread himself open without thought to consequence. 

Harry mouthed his way across Draco's throat. "You drive me mad," he said, the words uttered in a series of low grunts. 

"Animal," Draco gasped as he broke free and sank to the ground. "Can't even wait a few hours." Harry laughed, wisely making no comment as to who exactly was on his knees, ripping at the other's robes. Harry's cock sprang into Draco's hand, the sight, scent, and taste always new and intoxicating. Draco rubbed it over his cheeks, nuzzling the full, taut bollocks at its base. 

"Draco," Harry stuttered. "Please." 

Two-story buildings stood to either side of the narrow street. Should they start to collapse, escape would be difficult, even unmanageable if Harry's cock were buried in his throat, which it would be in a matter of seconds. The key would be to end the interlude quickly. By now Draco knew Harry's triggers, what sent him barreling into orgasm no matter how he struggled to hold back. Dedicated to that end, Draco sank down on the hot flesh, twirling his tongue as he went, and Harry's hands fisted in his hair, guiding him into a rapid, steady rhythm. 

Obscene, to be doing this in the middle of the street, never mind its emptiness, with Harry's gasps and groans echoed off the surrounding walls. "Oh, Draco," he moaned. "Oh, Draco."

Bastard. He knew what that did to Draco's control. It was a race now. Draco's prick swelled and throbbed inside his trousers, straining for the sound of Harry's voice panting his name. Desperate to win their lewd competition, he took Harry deep, swallowing again and again, and let his own moans vibrate through Harry's cock. 

Harry shouted, cursing his surprise and reluctant surrender. His hips canted forward as he climaxed, and Draco didn't fight the iron grip holding him in place, but accepted the spurts of hot liquid down his throat. 

A subtle rumble in the earth beneath Draco's knees broke through their bliss, and Harry pulled himself straight with a groan, muttering a string of curses that raised even Draco's brows. Cupping a hand under Draco's chin, Harry swiped a finger across his lips. "You are _so_ good at that."

Draco went warm. Yet another phrase he'd likely never grow tired of. 

Harry grinned. "My turn."

And yet another. Draco pressed a hand to the front of his trousers and shook his head. "I think we've pushed our luck far enough, don't you?"

"I—"

Another rumble, closer this time, and the sated, untroubled expression slid off Harry's face. Loathing for their enemy pounded through Draco's blood. It couldn't even leave them to their happiness for five bloody minutes. 

"I suppose you're right." Harry hauled Draco up and into his arms. "This is what drove me out of the village in the first place. This sense of being watched. As if it enjoyed taunting me with that power."

"You've sensed that as well?"

" _All the time_. It was maddening in the beginning." He handed Draco his wand, which he'd dropped in his rush to burrow beneath Harry's robes. "That's when I found the grotto, and everything changed."

"How do you mean?"

Harry turned his wand to a pile of smaller stones and levitated them one by one to the broken wall behind him. The rocks and shards hovered for a moment before zooming into place, stray puzzle pieces finding their home with the help of Harry's magic. Slowly, the wall took shape. "I'd been here three months," Harry said. "Alone. And one day, I simply…lost hope. I packed my supplies and headed down the hill toward the lake." Gaze focused inward, he stretched a hand toward the rebuilt wall, and the seams between the cracks glowed bright before disappearing, leaving an unbroken slab behind. 

Draco ran hot and cold at the display. Such a show of power from anyone else—well, he'd only ever seen such a show of power from one other. And those had never left him dizzy with lust. 

"But then." Harry ambled toward another crippled section of wall. Draco followed. "I felt it."

"Felt what?"

"The pull." Harry's eyes fluttered shut. "It drew me up the hill, and it promised… so much. I'd been fighting the evil for so long, I'd almost forgotten what good magic felt like."

"I don't understand."

Harry's hands, when he reached to take Draco's were cold, tinged blue at the fingertips. "The grotto. It's the balancing factor. White magic to challenge what's infecting the village. It's what keeps the Dark magic in check. Stops it from spreading." 

Draco glanced over his shoulder at the hill, imagining the path hidden in the forest of birches, and the cave he called home, with its pool of warmth and pleasure. In that moment, watching Harry's eyes glow bright with a zealot's passion, a terrible, bleak thought was born. Numb, he tried to speak. "Harry…"

Harry turned, eyes bright and filled with love, and Draco's suspicions burned away like fog beneath the morning's sun.

Was it so outlandish that dueling forces existed here? This was northern Scotland, after all. A place filled with ancient, rogue magic and a library of accompanying fairytales. Merlin had roamed these forests in his madness, sanity broken by the loss of his beloved king. The _Sidhe_ had fought wars on this soil. Draco reached into his pocket to stroke the white feather he kept there—the one shed by the Ministry's owl so many weeks ago. It reminded him of his most important choices, and of the things he'd found here that left him feeling rich and whole again. Certainly, yes. The situation could be _exactly_ as Harry described. 

Yet he feared it wasn't, and that no amount of posturing would make it so.

One piece at a time, Potter rebuilt the wall, his hold on Draco's fingers firm and possessive. "The cave was a lucky find, don't you think?"

Draco answered with the first lie he'd told since arriving in the village. "Yes. Very lucky."

**

He'd given little thought to his sleep patterns since arriving, other than to note they were vastly improved. _Too_ improved. He no longer started awake at the slightest sound, and his nightmares, a staple of his existence since the war, hadn't manifested once. In the softened memories of his early childhood, Draco could recall closing his eyes in one moment and opening them in another, only to find ten hours had passed. How a person could lose so much time in the blink of an eye bewildered him. He'd thought it magical, even after he'd witnessed real magic at work.

This was the sort of rest most adults craved, but rarely achieved, too wrapped up in their burdens and stresses. So why the lost hours left him uneasy, Draco couldn't discern. _I go to sleep, and I don't dream_ , Harry had said. He wasn't the only one, and eventually Draco vowed to find out why.

When Harry went limp a few nights later, snoring softly against his collarbone, Draco slipped a hand under his pillow, gripped his wand and whispered a familiar incantation, one he hadn't uttered since Hogwarts. Then he closed his eyes. 

Immediately, pain seared across his palm, and he drew back with a hiss. Had he misremembered the spell? Impossible. He'd cast it often during sixth year, when his mission dictated he roam the halls of the castle after curfew. This spell had wakened him in the dead of night for that purpose explicitly. He lifted his hand into the moonlight, scowling at the burn that looked, for all intents and purposes, as if he'd been clutching the heated handle of his wand for far longer than a second or two.

The lack of warmth against his side registered just as he spied the night sky through the grated window. He _had_ slept. For hours judging by the height of the moon. He inspected his singed palm again, curious as to how long it'd taken the pain to pull him awake. He rolled to his side, reaching for his lover, but the bed was empty.

He sat up and made a scan of the cave in the ambient moonlight. A few corners clung to their shadows, but Harry's presence always left a slight vibration in the air, and nothing but stillness met Draco's inspection. He was alone. 

There was little question as to where to search. He found his jeans and yanked them over his hips. At the edges of his awareness, too low to hear, but easily felt, a rhythmic boom sounded, steady as a beating heart. He left his wand on his pillow and, empty-handed, slid through the narrow passage down the stone steps to the underground lake. 

The cavern had been lit. Tinted deep ochre, the beams reflected against the smooth walls of rock and up the steps, glaring off the undulating water. Draco rounded the final corner to find Harry standing ankle-deep in the pool, naked. His hands hung loose at his sides, and he was so utterly still that Draco's pace faltered. For long seconds, nothing moved, and Draco found himself sinking into a crouch, an instinctive move to appear smaller in the face of a threat. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he waited. 

Several minutes passed, each second heightening the unnaturalness of the scene. Draco noticed details he'd overlooked before. The simple perfection of the sloped roof, the pattern of rock formations on the lake's shore, omens of interference in the natural order. And, of course, Harry, standing as though hexed into place, staring into the dim, distant reaches of the cave.

Draco's unease reached a crescendo and he stood, descending the last several steps to the pool's edge. "Harry," he said, reaching forward. The low hum he'd come to associate with the lake sounded in his ears. The roots of his teeth ached with it. And beneath that, steady and unwavering, the drumbeat.

Harry spoke before Draco's fingers alighted on his skin. "Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked without turning.

Accusation, subtle but unmistakable, rang in the question. Irritation flared in Draco's chest. "Why aren't _you_ sleeping?" 

Harry finally moved, shoulders sagging. His defeated shrug tore at Draco's heart. "Couldn't. I kept thinking about things."

Draco touched him then, unable to stop himself. A mild electric shock met his fingers. His insides began a slow melt, bubbling with well-being and contentment. His fears and worries lost their shine. A voice rang in his head, sounding suspiciously like his mother. _Run, Draco._

Impossible. Under no circumstances could he bear a separation. Not with loneliness and despair plaguing the man he loved. Draco embraced him, stepping down into the water and soaking the cuffs of his jeans. "What were you thinking?" 

Harry flashed a resigned smile. "That you'll leave too. I know you will. I don't want you to think… You don't think I started this thing between us to make you stay, do you?"

He'd never considered it. Until now. Until Harry had brought the idea to the fore. "No," he said, if for no other reason than to convince himself. 

"Good." Swiveling, Harry searched his face. "I trust you."

The humming intensified for a moment, blurring Draco's vision. He shook his head, growing angry when it wouldn't clear. "I'm not leaving. I promise." Draco lowered them both to sit in the shallow water. "We’ll get through this together." He'd move the earth to be able to strip away Harry's despair, would tell grievous lies, but that wasn't necessary in this case. He meant every word. 

Harry tipped his head onto Draco's shoulder and wedged a hand between his knees. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For being so needy." He groaned, scrubbing his palms over his cheeks. "It's really unlike me, I promise."

A promise indicated a future, something Draco had begun to dream about of late. "Is that so surprising after two years in this place?" Draco sighed against his hair. "You need a holiday." He smiled at Harry's feeble laugh. "I'm quite serious. Let me take you away for a few days."

"No." 

Draco started at the firm answer. "One night, at least."

"No. I can't. We could lose weeks of gains. I'm not even sure we'd be able to return, or what we'd find when we did. I can't show any weakness, Draco. Especially now, when we're so close."

So close to what? In Draco's mind, they'd gained little overall ground since his arrival. But the urge to leave and take Harry with him, overpowering a few minutes ago, had been borne away by the water lapping at his skin. "You never grow bored?"

"With you here? No. And I've learned so much since arriving." Harry sighed in his ear. "At first I tried to write it all down, but I couldn't keep pace. And I couldn't put a lot of it into words anyway."

Draco joined their hands under the water. "Such as?"

"I understand more about the root of magic now. Where it begins. Where it ends. The deep places in the earth it springs from. It's connected in ways you can't even imagine."

"How so?"

"Well." Harry slipped Draco's hold, sliding deeper into the pool. Despite the implied invitation to follow, Draco let him go. "For example," Harry said, "the spells that we use. The words we assign to them, in particular. They're just words, nothing more. Magic molded by language. It didn't used to be like that, you know."

"How do you know?"

He hadn't expected an answer and didn't receive one. Harry continued as though never interrupted. "Spoken spells were created for the weaker of us, when the earth's magic became too diluted. As a focus point. Now we're all weak. That's why we need language to work spells."

"I don’t understand." 

"The words mean nothing, Draco. If I wanted, I could _change_ the spoken spell so that people who tried to warm their tea might blind every person in the room. And the worst part is, no one would understand why it happened. They've lost touch with the essence of the force that makes them special. You might say, they're playing with power they can't comprehend. And that's never a good thing, is it?" He flashed a seductive smile. "Feel like a swim?"

"Later," Draco said, too stunned to move. 

Harry pushed off from the steps, floating on his back, arms spread wide. "Lots to do tomorrow."

"Yes," Draco agreed. "There is."

**

He left before Harry stirred, retracing his steps through the forest to the edge of town, then through the ruin to the packed-dirt road he’d entered by several weeks before, moving by wandlight.

The faint yellow glow did little to dispel the cold and compounded the bone-deep chill he’d been feeling since yesterday. The memory of Harry’s sleep-warm body and the affectionate words he’d gasp in the throes of passion, usually enough to leave Draco overly warm, held all the heat of a flickering candle.

What if that too were a lie?

He sat on the shore of the loch for some time, until the sun broke over the highest eastern peak, trying to work a solution. He fingered the owl feather in his pocket. Once a symbol of his journey, it now represented failure. But it epitomized something else as well. Deception. This entire mission had been a fabrication from the start.

Leaping from the rock, Draco glanced over this shoulder once more to the distant village on the hill, then Disapparated. He didn’t go far. There were places in Hogsmeade that had exactly what he required: privacy and a working floo. The Hog's Head would serve nicely. He discovered it empty, as usual. A few Galleons earned him a nod toward the stairs, the same rickety set he remembered from the war. Cold and empty, the fireplace at the top did little to light his way towards the guest rooms, but if Draco remembered the level of decay correctly, that was for the best.

The trio of Wizengamot witches gathered quickly in response to his call. They’d been waiting for word—he realized that now—so their expediency didn’t surprise him. What did shock was their greeting. "Where is Harry Potter?" the plump one asked.

The words punched him backward, and he collapsed onto the lumpy mattress. "Still in the village."

They regarded him in silence, three pointed stares verses Draco’s puzzled expression. The middle witch flickered, faded, then grew suddenly stronger, leaning forward into the room, stretching the magical limits of the floo. "Why have you called upon us?"

"Because I have news. And questions," Draco answered with the utmost truth. "Potter's been infected by a Dark source of magic hiding in the earth beneath the village." Grasping the bedpost, he pulled to his feet. "I have a feeling, however, that this is no surprise to you."

"No." 

"So you know about Potter. About the Dark taint."

The three nodded in unison. 

"And you sent _me_ to do something about it?" Flushed, Draco paced the floorboards in front of the floo. "Surely there were people better equipped to help him. Friends?"

"Indeed. Many friends tried. And many people after that."

"Oh." The answer leaked from Draco’s mouth as a plaintive groan. Now it all made sense. This assignment had been no bid to secure Draco’s ‘advanced spellwork.’ He’d been used, a disturbingly familiar turns of events. The Wizengamut’s last resort. "I assume," he said, trying to clear the rasp from his throat, "they all failed."

"Mr. Malfoy, we’ve spent the better part of two years attempting to extract Mr. Potter from that village."

"Perhaps you should have tried harder."

The third witch stared down her nose at him. "Did you ever try to coax him away, even for one evening?"

Yes, he had, in point of fact. With no success. He set his jaw, refusing to answer, and the three witches shook their heads in unison.

"He refuses to leave," said the first. "That place, its Dark magic, has its claws in him. And by all accounts he grows more powerful and less coherent by the day, rebuilding the town just to tear it down once more in his bouts of madness. His behavior has been described by those sent to work with him as chilling." Flames licked in the witch’s ghostly eyes. "Have _you_ witnessed anything unsettling?"

Unsettling? Harry had bypassed that the first evening. "Yes," he said, desperate to qualify his answer. "But he’s also displayed a bravery and selflessness that couldn’t have been feigned. He still dreams of coming home. He still… laughs." He still did dozens of things that proved his humanity, but Draco didn't attempt to explain them. Describing how Harry kissed his scars, or how he cried when he remembered the fallen, what would that accomplish? More than distance separated Draco and Harry from the three witches guiding their fate. 

The plump witch shook a finger at him. "He must be stopped."

Draco slumped against the bedpost, pressing his wand to his forehead. "I know. I’ll try, of course, but what in the name of Merlin makes you believe _I_ can save him when no one else could?"

For the span of several seconds, only the hiss of fire could be heard. Then the witch in the middle spoke, her one blind eye milky white even in the green flames of the floo. "You weren’t sent there to save him, Mr. Malfoy."

 _What are your thoughts on the heroes of the war?_ Had a sword been handy, Draco would have gladly fallen onto it. And even that couldn’t have touched the pain those words wrought. Numb, he made his lips form a response. "I don’t understand."

She leant forward, speaking slowly, as if he were dim-witted. "You were sent to stop him, however you must."

An assassin once more. Draco’s hand twitched, remembering how Harry’s coarse hair felt sifting through his fingers. How he would bury his face in the crook of Draco’s neck and speak from the heart, showing him more honesty than anyone had before. An inferno of rage built within his chest, and he brandished his wand at the floo, shaking from head to toe. "How can you even suggest such a thing?"

"We have no choice."

"He's a victim!" Draco struck the mantle with his fist, and the ghostly heads flinched. 

"You yourself said that was no excuse for your own crimes."

He had said that, and believed it. "You're drawing a false comparison. Harry hasn’t committed any crimes."

"Not yet." Two of the heads faded into the flames, leaving the witch in the middle to speak. "You’ve spent several weeks with the man. Is there any doubt in your mind he holds the power to bring darkness to our world, should he decide he wants to?"

No doubt at all. "He wouldn't," Draco whispered. "I know he wouldn't."

"Stop him, Mr. Malfoy. Using whatever methods necessary. If you do this and succeed, consider your debt to society paid."

Do this and succeed. The very idea was unthinkable. 

Do this and fail, and those living in fear would have a plausible scapegoat. Not an extremely pressing concern, since Draco would be dead. Murdered by the one person in the world who trusted him. Once more, he was surrounded by traps masquerading as choices. 

Unless he charted his own path. Devised his own solution, not one comprised of Unspeakable curses.

He left Hogsmeade a changed man. No better, and hopefully no worse, but with a mission far more difficult than any other he'd faced. His plan's small odds of success couldn’t even be measured, yet he had to try. For himself he wouldn’t consider such madness. But for Harry, yes. For Harry, Draco would battle what lurked in the dark.

**

It took him several hours to make the required preparations, and the sun had set by the time he passed the fallen house with the rabbit's den and started up the hill to the cave. He'd lost his fear of traveling through the village at night. No inanimate stone or abstract force frightened him as much as knowing Harry Potter had been stained with Dark magic. As to whether there had ever been any danger in the village at all, Draco had to wonder. Every word that Harry had ever uttered was circumspect. Even those shared in their passion. Especially those. The thought sent a cramp of pain through his stomach, and he stumbled off the path, positive he'd be ill. He bent over, coughing weakly, but quiet, wrenching sobs replaced the sickness, and in the end, all he left on the ground were a few splattered tears.

He'd expected Harry to be at the pool, so finding him sitting on the edge of their bed, hunched with his elbows on his knees, gave Draco pause. 

His arsenal of deception was dusty with misuse, but intact, and he called on it to as he entered the cave. Strangely, faced with the monster itself, he felt no fear. At his heart, this man was still Harry Potter. Still the best of them all. "Harry," Draco said.

Harry's head shot up. The relief in his voice sent tremors through Draco. "You came back," he said.

"Of course I came back, you imbecile. I told you I wouldn't leave you alone."

Harry answered with a series of blinks. "No one ever comes back."

If it was the last thing Draco did, he would damn this man's so-called friends to hell for giving up too soon. "Well, _I_ did. I came back." He stepped between Harry's legs and pushed his shoulders up and back—he couldn't bear the defeated posture—then tilted Harry's face up so that their gazes locked. "I'll always come back."

"I don’t understand. Where did you go?"

"I needed to attend to a few personal matters."

Tentative fingers settled on Draco's hips. "And you've done that?"

"I have. I'm sorry I took so long."

Packed with truth, the statement slid by Harry's shields. Smiling, he pressed his face to Draco's sternum. His touch, always possessive, carried a fresh desperation that Draco soothed as best he could. He yielded without comment at being turned and pressed into the mattress, spread his arms and legs and let Harry undress him. A part of him hoped for a slow seduction, another for a quick, sloppy joining. Both would be an affirmation. One he badly needed before he put his plan into action.

But all Harry did was get naked himself, entwine their arms and legs into an unbreakable knot, and pull the blankets over their heads. He said nothing more, and Draco respected the silence, offering no more excuses. They held each other for a long time before Harry spoke.

"Are you hungry?"

"Not at all."

Harry's vise-like grip eased. "I think I'll go for a swim then. Would you like to come."

"No." His reticence went unnoticed. Harry kissed him and climbed out of bed.

"I'll be back soon." 

Draco experienced an addict's craving the moment Harry disappeared through the passage that led to the pool. Desire whittled away at his pledges and promises. Why not join Harry for a moment? Why not join him forever? Why not sink beneath the water and gorge on contentment? Live in this manufactured happiness until the world caught up with the two of them. 

He'd thought Dumbledore the ultimate test of his strength. How wrong he'd been. Rising to his knees on the damp, rumpled bed sheets, he lifted his eyes to the tiny window high in the rock. "What should I do?"

His answer came not from above, but from the depths, echoing up the stone staircase. A drumbeat that resonated in his bones—the pool's heartbeat—and an accompanying harmony, Harry's delighted laughter. With that terrifying melody in his ears, Draco made his decision. 

He padded, naked, to where he'd tossed his robes, and deep within the inner pocket, he found it. The white owl's feather, stained brown along one edge with spilt tea. He didn't dare speak the spell too loudly, incanting in the barest whisper while he poured magic into the fragile plume. The Portkey took barely a minute to create. If only his nerves would rally as easily.

Harry returned hours later, in a routine Draco had come to understand was more usual than not. How many nights had he left their bed to visit the pool? Most. Maybe all. Dwelling on such a thing now changed nothing. Draco stood from his chair and let Harry lead him to bed.

**

He woke before dawn to Harry rubbing on him like a feline who'd found a planting bed of catnip. The blankets felt incredibly warm, the pillows extra soft, and, Draco would have gladly stayed cocooned in their bed forever.

"Will you take me, Draco?" Harry purred in his ear, thrusting against Draco's hip. "Remind me who I belong to."

Draco could fuck him till the end of time, and it wouldn't change the fact that Harry belonged to the evil entrenched into the rock and soil of the hill. Instead of succumbing to the seduction, he preyed on Harry's one weakness: his belief that his will was still his own. "There's all evening for that," he said, nipping at Harry's ear. "We should probably check how things are faring after yesterday." His suggestion raised a groan, but also a grudging nod. 

They made the descent to the village in silence. Harry halted in his usual place, whistling for the rabbit, but Draco continued past, stopping on the other side of the ruined house, near the waist-high remnants of a broad fireplace. 

"What about the street with the old church?" Harry called. "We could start there."

Hands shaking, Draco removed the feather from his pocket at placed it atop the hearthstone, then touched his wand to its center and spoke the spell to activate the Portkey. 

"What did you say?" Harry tilted his head. "What are you doing over there?"

Their eyes met, and Draco spoke before he lost his courage. "I love you," he said.

Harry's smile was all for him, a priceless parting gift. Draco raised his wand, throwing every scrap of power into his voice. " _Stupefy_." He'd prepared himself for several outcomes, never once hoping for the best. Yet, by some miracle, he got exactly that. Harry dropped like a stone. 

Unaided by magic, Draco gathered him into his arms and carried him to the Portkey. The ground shifted violently, sending several loose stones rolling down the hill, but Draco kept his feet. "I know you want him," he said as he reached the crumbling hearth. "But I'm afraid I can't allow that." 

He hugged Harry to his chest, touched the feather, and the village faded into a swirl of color and shapes. The vortex threatened to rip away his precious cargo, but Draco held fast, landing hard a moment later. Distorted forms took shape around him. He saw a garden, its beauty fading with winter's approach, flower stalks bowed and browned, tangled and overgrown. Beneath his knees, he felt thick, coarse grass. Over his shoulder, he heard the trickle of water as it spilled from a fountain. This last detail made him shudder. Stone-still and breathing deeply, Harry lay tangled in his arms, and Draco sat sprawled beneath his weight for several seconds, too disoriented to move. 

His plan had worked. No, be fair. He'd executed the initial stages without trouble, and that was all the praise he'd allow himself at this point. Too much work remained. 

Several paces away, at the end of a stepping stone path, a door opened, throwing soft, yellow light into the dying garden. Only then did Draco notice the tidy cottage. He clutched Harry to him as he fumbled for his wand. He'd no strength for words, or perhaps no stomach for them, and in the end, none were needed. 

"He's done it." A tall figure stepped over the threshold. A witch, judging by the silhouette. "Is he conscious, Mr. Malfoy?"

Septima Vector. "No, Professor," Draco rasped. He gave a thought to shifting away, maintaining some pretense that the body he held was of no special concern to him. He cared not at all what these people thought, but Harry probably did. And if Draco revealed their intimacy, there would be conversations later where Harry would insist he'd been coerced into the relationship by forces he didn't understand. Draco would never hear these things firsthand, but knowing they would be said, perhaps with a pucker of distaste, stabbed deep into his heart. 

Despite that, he hadn't the willpower to pull away and settled for straightening his posture so he wasn't nuzzling into Harry's neck. "He's stunned, but I can't vouch for how long that will last."

"There's little time to waste then." She stepped forward, making way for a smaller figure, who rushed from the cottage into the grey morning light. Granger. Falling to her knees before them, she reached for Harry and cupped her palms about his face, knocking his glasses crooked. 

Draco straightened them. "Are you ready for this?"

"Yes. Thank you, Draco. I don't know how you managed it."

 _I don't know how you didn't_. How he longed to say the words aloud. To rage at her and everyone who left Harry alone in that place. They'd fled instead of fought, the great heroes and heroines of the war, and Draco wasn't sure he could forgive them.

Granger began to untangle Harry from his arms, not gently and obviously in haste. Draco pressed his eyes closed and let her take him.

"You have no idea what you've just accomplished," Septima told him. 

Spitting did nothing to clean the bitter taste from his mouth. "Spare me your reluctant praise. Are you positive you can make him better?"

"We'll do everything we can."

"Your record in that regard leaves much to be desired."

She tilted her head, regarding him with furrowed brows, and he let her look and judge. It captured the first two decades of his life in beautiful symbolism, she with her starched, black hat and him broken on the ground. But no longer. From this moment forward, his life was his own. 

Septima held out her hand. "Come inside."

"No."

"No?"

He let his silence answer the second time, and she pursed her lips. "You shouldn't go back there. You're not capable of doing this on your own."

He shook his head. "You don't know what I'm capable of."

She sniffed at the suggestion. "Do as you wish then. We'll keep you apprised."

"You do that," he said as she turned and joined the others gathering around Harry's still form. 

They whisked him away, the ones who'd abandoned him before. Through the door, Draco spied a kitchen, warm and inviting, with a loaf of fresh bread on the table and a pitcher of pumpkin juice beside it. Granger rushed to and fro, collecting various items while Weasley levitated Harry through another archway and out of sight. Draco tried to voice a whispered farewell, but the door swung shut, leaving him alone amongst the faded blooms and dew-slick grass. 

It took several tries before he successfully gained his feet, swaying with the flowers in the bracing morning wind. The Portkey slipped from his fingers, blowing away, and he let it go. He'd Apparate to the lake and hike to the cave. After all, a walk before battle was a martyr's prerogative.

**

He made it to the grotto without the slightest shifting of the earth, which may have been a ploy to make him complacent or a trap. Neither worried him. Empowerment flowed in his veins. Freedom, for the first time in his brief existence. A choice completely his own, not driven by fear, or family, or obligation, but by something far simpler.

He spoke as he entered the cave, though he'd no idea if the force he was fighting understood his words. "He's gone. Safe." The bed caught his eye, his and Harry's, sheets still rumpled from an hour ago. Draco leveled his wand at it. " _Deprimo!_ " It exploded with satisfying force.

"Take me if you can, but I'm afraid I won't be so easy a target." He strode slowly to the back of the cave. "Too tainted myself, you see. Not nearly as pure-hearted as Harry." He stood before the crack in the wall. "Nor as naïve." His wand slid through his sweaty fist, and he tightened his grip around the worn handle. "I've a few tricks up my sleeve, as well."

With that, he slipped into the passage that led to the pool. Euphoria engulfed him as he descended, a concentrated form of what swirled in the water. Draco breathed it in, weaving it into his memories of Harry, and continued onward. The physical pleasure came next, leaving his head spinning. Cock full, titillated to the point of orgasm in a matter of seconds, Draco only laughed. "You simple, egotistical creature. Your false gratification doesn't interest me. Not since I've possessed the real thing."

He reached the pool's edge, unsurprised to find the surface choppy, slapping at the steps. "Worried, are you?"

A gush of water splashed over his shoe, and the lust pulsing in his veins froze. His vision narrowed as pain intense enough to blur his vision hit him. He fell backward, helpless to do anything but curl up and whimper. It abated quickly, and heaving a dry, mocking laugh, Draco rolled back onto his knees and swiped a trembling hand across his mouth. "Amateur."

Another splash hit him. This time the torture was far worse.

In his mind's eye, Harry stood in front of him, curious frown marring his features. He held a rounded blue stone in each hand. "Love you? Are you mad, Malfoy? I don't even _like_ you."

Hand to his fractured heart, tears in his eyes, Draco stumbled to his feet. "My turn."

He brandished his wand at the domed roof. " _Confringo!_ " Then again, voice hoarse, " _Confringo!_ " 

The spell undid millennia of artwork. Stalactites broke away, spearing down into the water, shattering their twins beneath them. The pool's guardian sculptures splintered. The cave itself shook, but Draco dodged the rubble that sailed down, voice never faltering as he shouted the spell over and over. 

In the manner of all those who instigate a fight never expecting to win, his concentration wavered at the worst possible time. Giddy from seeing the cave start to collapse, from watching the water froth and boil, he neglected to notice the wave. It rose up, twice Draco's height, foamy at the crest, but silent as it rushed towards him. It swamped the steps, an unstoppable wall of water, knocked him off his feet, and pulled him under. 

He screamed a denial that cut off the moment he sank beneath the surface. In between heartbeats, he calmed. 

_Child_ , the entity crooned. _A quiet end to your heartache?_

Cocooned in warm water, his heartbeat fading in his ears, Draco gave his agreement. He sank to the bottom, settled into a carpet of blue stone, and prepared to sleep. 

He grew cold. Then colder still. No longer content, he shifted restlessly. Around him, the water churned once more. A burning in his lungs demanded he breathe, but he instinctively held his breath and opened his eyes. Above him, on the steps that led to the pool, a vindictive god spat fire into the air. A dark angel, distorted through the spinning water, but a creature of vengeance nonetheless. Fire exploded from its mouth into the ceiling of the cavern, and it roared. "Where is he!"

Draco almost inhaled in shock. Harry was here. 

"What have you done with him!" Harry pointed his wand once more, and Fiendfyre burst from the tip, the flame morphing into hideous beasts as it unfolded into the cave, spreading destruction in its wake. 

_Move, Draco_. That voice again. His mother's. Apparently his psyche knew a few tricks as well, because the ploy worked. He obeyed instinctively, and with her voice in his ears and Harry in his sights, Draco _did_ move. He curled up and pushed off the bottom, scattering blue stones into the deep, and reached for precious oxygen high above, visible only for the harsh red glow of the Fiendfyre eating away at it. He broke the surface just as his lungs rebelled and a hand grabbed him, the grip strong and familiar.

"Draco! Draco!" 

Draco coughed up water as Harry grasped him around the chest and pulled him towards shore. The steps felt slick under his feet, sloped downward. A current pulled at them as they tried to climb free. 

"Stay down," Harry demanded, throwing a glance at the rampaging Fiendfyre. "I've lost control of it, and if it sees us too soon, we won't make it out."

Of course, with his typical Gryffindor forethought, Harry had unleashed a force even more dangerous than what laid in the pool itself. Yet, it was brilliant, wasn't it? And perhaps their only hope. Draco nodded that he understood, not caring to shout over the deafening cacophony. Harry hauled him to his hands and knees, gaze tracking the rollicking flames. They'd taken shape as the spell gained strength, the details amazing and terrifying. Waterspouts rose up, attacking the flames in midair, but with little success. The pool's strength was its sly cajolery. It had little defense against Fiendfyre. 

Mesmerized by the fire-dragon forming over the center of the pool, its scales a million tiny individual flames, Draco almost missed Harry's signal. "Now," Harry said in his ear, and they bolted up the steps. 

Draco felt the moment the Fiendfyre's eye fell upon them. They had no broom this time. If they wanted to live, they'd have to rely on their feet and wits. And, Draco realized, as Harry turned, shoving Draco behind his back, Harry's magic. 

He spoke no spell. Held no wand. All he did, as the fire-dragon charged, was hold out a hand. The dragon jerked to a stop with an unholy screech, belching flame. Steam rose off Draco's drenched clothes in the blast of heat. "Leave us be," Harry growled. "Finish what you started." He flicked his hand to the side. 

The dragon roared as it careened away, crashing into the wall of the cave. The domed ceiling bowed inward, fissures spreading along the stone, and Harry grabbed Draco once more. "Time to go."

Indeed. Past time. Clinging to each other, they sprinted up the last steps and dashed down the narrow passage to their camp. Harry halted in the center of the space, as if seeing it for the first time. His gaze settled briefly on the charred remains of their bed. 

"Harry," Draco said. 

It was all Harry needed. With a sharp nod, he took Draco's arm and they ran from the cave together, following the narrow path to the bottom of the hill, while beneath their feet, the earth groaned and shook.

**

"The village dates back two centuries but the grotto isn't mentioned anywhere in its history."

Huddled in a blanket atop a mossy boulder by the shore of the loch, Draco nodded. The sun had just climbed over the highest eastern peak, spearing beams of light into the young birch forest at the lake's edge. Morning frost glittered off the branches and made Draco's head pound. Granger's voice sounded far-off, echoing in his ears as if they spoke to each other through a long tunnel, though she sat only a few feet away. "I thought Hogsmeade was the only exclusively wizarding village," he mumbled.

"Apparently not." The thought that her precious books carried false information must have grated, judging by the disgust in her voice. "The villagers took their privacy very seriously. The land may well have remained undiscovered by modern wizarding society for far longer if Voldemort hadn't stumbled across it." 

"There was a bit of rotten luck."

Draco shut his eyes against the glare. Leave it to Harry to understate such a portentous accident of circumstance.

"Before that," Granger continued, "there are only myths about this area. Legends. People going mad. Children vanishing, only to reappear years later. In 1423, the entire Blackfoord clan disappeared while traveling through the valley. Their camp was found abandoned by the loch, perfectly intact. Not a single man, woman, or child was ever found. There's a mention of the area being made unplottable a century later."

"To protect us," Septima mused. She straightened her tall hat, dark eyes fixed on where Harry stood. Back to the group, he skipped stones into the water one by one.

A sharp breeze set the pages of Hermione's book flapping. Placing her hands flat against the pages, as though she could absorb the knowledge through her palms, she bit her lip but said no more. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, lifted and danced around her head. 

"Is that all?" Septima asked. 

"All that matters." Hermione closed the book with a sharp snap. "My best guess is that the source of Dark magic had been dormant, perhaps for centuries, but the battle between the Order, Aurors, and the Death Eaters awakened it somehow." 

Several paces away, Harry nodded slowly and sent another pebble dancing across the water. "It wouldn't be the first time such a thing has happened." 

_No_ , thought Draco. _Nor would it be the last_. 

He remembered little of the trip from the village to the spot by the loch where Granger and Professor Vector had been waiting. There'd been an uncomfortable damp chill. Harry's steady presence at his side. The redstarts fluttering from tree to tree, their song of encouragement carrying forward on the wind. But most of all, he remembered the expression on Granger's face when Harry had settled Draco beside him on a boulder, wrapped him in a blanket, and hugged him tightly. "I've got you," he'd repeated again and again. "I've got you."

"It was like a dream," he said now, dropping his handful of pebbles and returning to Draco's side. He crowded close, and his lips ruffled Draco's hair. "When Hermione and Septima woke me up. When they told me where I was. Who'd brought me. It felt like a dream." 

"I'm sorry." Draco had no excuse. The idea that Harry would _inherently_ care for him in such a way, without outside influence, seemed ludicrous now. Seduction had been a heady presence on the hill, and Draco had fallen victim, just as Harry had. 

"Why are you sorry?"

Surely it was obvious. "None of it was real," Draco said, scowling into Harry's shoulder. "What you felt."

Firm fingers gripped his chin, tilting it back until their eyes met. "Some of it was, Draco. Do you think I would've come back for you otherwise?"

That part was equally fuzzy. All he recalled was fire and a deathbed of blue stone. 

"He broke our restraining spells like they were made of gossamer." Septima still looked shaken. "When we told him the truth about the grotto, he did nothing. But when we told him you'd returned here alone..." She pulled in a deep, stuttering breath, and Granger echoed it. "We had no hope of stopping him."

Hearing the words and believing them were in no way connected. "Had you cleansed him of the taint?"

"We never got the chance."

They'd all come close to death then. He felt justified in glaring at Harry, no matter how tender his embrace. "You returned even though it still had a hold on you." 

"Yes. With the Portkey you left behind." He fished the feather from his pocket and presented it, grey and dripping, for Draco's inspection. Draco curled it into his fist, squeezing out any vestiges of magic that remained, and it became a simple feather again. Bedraggled. Stained. But his. 

His mind spun with questions. "You're a fool, do you know that? How did you resist it?"

"You don't—" Harry ducked his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. His other arm stayed locked in place around Draco's shoulders. He seemed unable to find the words he sought.

"Didn't it tempt you?" Draco pressed.

"It tried. In more ways than I'll ever be able to repeat. But all I wanted was you."

He'd said it without a trace of hesitation. More, he'd said it in front of witnesses. Those two facts alone rekindled Draco's fragile hope. "So you're a _sentimental_ fool."

Harry reined him in for a kiss. "And you're a hero."

** END **

**Author's Note:**

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